


her echoes within me

by Sonderxxx



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Clexa, Clexaweek21, Cottagecore, Day 3, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Period romance, Pining, Yearning, period drama, reunited, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 60,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29744688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonderxxx/pseuds/Sonderxxx
Summary: Their love begins as it ends: beneath a tree that bears their names, amidst birds that sing their heartache, and dusted in golden leaves whose fleeting touch is as soft and lingering as their last kiss.Or: a vague period drama where they have loved one another since childhood, and there’s only one thing that stands in the way of their happiness: everything.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin & Lexa, Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 70
Kudos: 121
Collections: Clexaweek2021





	1. our love was of the autumn; heady, golden, and pure

**Author's Note:**

> This is a love letter to Clexa.
> 
> Reshop, Heda.

Golden leaves spiral from the sky the first time they kiss. 

It’s been a soft autumn, and their love bloomed with the times. Lexa’s father was away on business; Clarke’s mother was stitching up war wounds at the infirmary across the way. Like most days lately, they found themselves drifting farther and farther from home, which was a relief for Lexa, ever eager to put distance between herself and the cold, empty manor that had served as a roof over her head for most of her life; Clarke, who had shared many a laugh and comforting embrace in the shelter of her small quaint home full of warmth, nevertheless found herself eager to follow Lexa anywhere, but especially the hallowed orchard. 

It doesn’t belong to either of them. They aren’t certain who owns these acres stretching farther than the eye could see, beyond the shimmering horizons, some measurable distance behind their own homes, but they’re always grateful to capitalize on its relative emptiness. Just through the orchard lay a meadow, with naught but a single oak tree to spread its shade, and it’s always there that they find themselves wandering. Clarke has long lost count of how many afternoons they’ve drowned in the comfort of this tree, the usual sharp edges to her outings with Lexa inexplicably softened when the two of them came to rest at its trunk. It’s been marked with their presence for many years now, a small heart containing their initials they carved in together with the small bowie knife Lexa stole from her father. 

Clarke is never sure if it’s the magic and mysticism of the tree itself, singular and towering, or the familiar and gentle tenor of Lexa’s voice as she reads softly to Clarke from the various books she could never be found without. Just as when they were children, Clarke would slip into slumber with her head tucked into Lexa’s shoulder, and when she wakes she would always spend the first several seconds pretending she hadn’t, if only to remain there just a bit longer, dappled sunshine her blanket, head filled with the sweet scent of her friend’s soft curls just beneath her nose and the sound of Lexa’s heartbeat reverberating in her own aching rib cage. Lexa never seemed to realize when she was awake. She would read on, softly, until Clarke stirred and nuzzled deeper into her embrace, until Lexa’s lips brushed across the top of her head, and her body in its entirety burned with something she could never name.

But she suspects she’s beginning to discover it.

She has felt this way for as long as she can remember, and when she tries to think back, pinpoint an exact moment, she finds it’s as difficult as recognizing the precise instance in time that her younger self learnt how to breathe. 

She feels as though she’s been built with this yearning, this ache that suffuses every inch of her body, but in times such as these, when they’re tucked into this haven isolated from the world, it’s hard to feel the usual shame about it—particularly when moments alone give way to a different sort of fear when her monstrous appetite spreads its jaws wide and threatens to swallow the both of them whole. She’s not strong enough to resist reaching for her, fingers curling loosely into the wool of Lexa’s dress. The fact that it serves as the only thin barrier between her fingertips and Lexa’s skin is one that tends to haunt her at all times, but admittedly most when it’s late at night.

Lexa tends to have that effect on her.

It was, in fact, only two days ago that their reading led to an epiphany. For years Clarke had swallowed down these strange and confusing feelings, had tried her best to ignore the way her skin lit up with each graze of Lexa’s body, how she seemed to glow even at mere proximity to her. Now the incessant swirling of her stomach felt heavier, fuller, in certain loaded moments where the air felt alive and dangerous, the equivalent of the tension in the sky moments before a storm. She had rattled off excuses for why she oft found her gaze drifting to various features that shouldn’t draw it—the soft swell of Lexa’s lips, the sharp angle of her jaw and elegant stretch of her neck; the defined measure of her collarbones and the subtle shadows splayed over her chest from her corset pushing up her breasts, only ever seen in brief stolen moments when they changed near the other—sometimes even the curve of Lexa’s backside, the shapely line of her ankles beneath her pleated skirts.

She reasons with herself when she realises she’s staring too hard and for too long. When she swallows and quails beneath the pressure of her own swollen, aching heart, squeezing and suffocating beneath the graceful timbre of Lexa’s voice. When she thinks constantly about the clever way Lexa’s mind works, how she’s so unafraid to speak her mind to Clarke, how she boldly shows her anger in private moments when she raves about her frustrations with her father, the town, the workings of the world. When the very, very few times Lexa has allowed herself to expose the sorrow eating up her heart, Clarke has cried with her, has brushed away her tears and kissed the top of her head and whispered that she is here, she is here, she is here, all for her. When she fantasizes endless scenarios that involve her going much farther than simply holding Lexa’s hands and gifting her the gentle affections any woman would give a friend they loved dearly. When she imagines parting her lips and letting the truth fly free, begging Lexa, confessing she knows not what these feelings are and what they mean, except she knows exactly what they are and why she is overwhelmed with them, and perhaps she _is_ a monster and the universe is corralling her towards certain hell, but if this haven exists— the orchard and this hidden meadow where everything but time and the two of them ceases to exist— then perhaps she is content with this version of heaven. If this is paradise, she’s wholly certain whatever lay beyond it pales in comparison.

Still, when it came to matters of intimacy, she would at times feel that heavy dread in her stomach that accompanied the flutters of warmth. Generally she reasoned with herself, in those weaker moments. This must be an anomaly. An abhorrence. A test of her will. Fight it.

But then it happened. 

Two days ago.

And Clarke’s world would never be the same.

* * *

It was a day like any other. They woke, finished their chores in haste, and snuck away with a book tucked beneath Lexa’s arm. Spoke and laughed as they made their way to this spot, to this place that belonged to them, stole their fruit and settled against the tree, swathed in its reprieve, and spent the next hours with only Lexa’s soft voice and the occasional birdsong breaking the silence. 

_"Whenever you tell me your story, it will be made up chiefly of some one great romance."_

Clarke had been dozing lightly, drifting in that cherished limbo somewhere between awake and asleep, Lexa’s words guiding her like a safe harbor. 

And then her next words, spoken with uncharacteristic hesitation followed by a gruff clearing of her throat, changed everything.

_“She kissed me silently.”_

Clarke’s eyes had flown open. She peered down from where her head was propped on Lexa’s shoulder, her heart stuttering in her chest as she focused on the words printed on the paper moments before Lexa said them aloud.

_"I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart going on."_

_"I have been in love with no one, and never shall," she whispered, "unless it should be with you."_

_How beautiful she looked in the moonlight!”_

Lexa paused when Clarke took an audible, sharp intake of breath, and Clarke cursed herself for a moment because she didn’t want Lexa to stop. But she could feel the weight of her uncertain stare, so she tilted her head, craning back to meet her gaze, and a thrill wracked through her when their eyes met. It was a calm, breezy day, barely a cloud in the sky, but suddenly it felt as though thunder could rumble and lightning strike at any moment.

“What?” Lexa said, voice small.

“She kissed her,” Clarke said dumbly, cursing herself for her lack of wit. Her face warmed, touched with embarrassment. 

Lexa swallowed, green eyes flitting between each of Clarke’s as though searching for something. “Yes.”

Clarke paused, her heart thundering. She struggled to control her breathing. “They...they are both women, are they not?” She may not have paid as much attention to this book as she could have in favor of napping, but she was fairly certain of this. 

Lexa swallowed again, and Clarke was enchanted and besotted by the dusting of pink on her cheeks. “Yes.” 

_She kissed her._

Clarke’s gaze drifted, as it was already wont to do, but typically not so openly. Lexa’s lips were full and pink and beautiful, and Clarke had felt their softness on her countless times before, however fleeting. Kisses to the top of her head, to her hand, even on occasion to her cheeks. But never on her mouth. Her body seized and burned with the ache coursing through her at the thought, the _need_. She realized all at once that Lexa was still staring at her, and panic struck high in her chest; she promptly dipped her head down, hiding her face in the curve of Lexa’s neck, shaking in response to the hitch of breath Lexa gave.

For a long moment they were silent, still, uncertain, until Clarke couldn’t stand the tension in the air any longer. 

“Keep reading,” she whispered.

It took another moment, but Lexa did. Cleared her throat first, and quietly read out, _“Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled.”_

Clarke’s face burned against Lexa’s skin, and Lexa’s wild curls tickled her nose. She couldn’t stop herself from pressing her trembling hand to the one Lexa had clenched in a fist atop her thigh. She could feel Lexa’s whole frame shaking against her, and without thought Clarke tipped her chin up to press what was meant to be a soothing, placating kiss to any part of Lexa she could reach; she landed on the column of Lexa’s throat, and her heart thudded at the fact that she could feel Lexa’s pulse thrumming wildly just beneath her flesh.

Lexa continued to read, her voice rough, lower than Clarke had ever heard it.

_“Her soft cheek was glowing against mine. "Darling, darling," she murmured, "I live in you; and you would die for me, I love you so."_

The words echoed within Clarke, rebounding in the confines of her skull, singing out a chorus in the caverns of her chest. It was instinct, the way she pressed more firmly against Lexa. The way she sought out more of her, nose trailing the arch of her neck and the hard line of her jaw, the high hollow of her cheek, and finally, the soft tip of her nose. All Clarke could hear was the rushing in her ears as she struggled to open her eyes; when she did, all she could see was Lexa, less than an inch away and closer than Clarke had ever been to her, her brow creased with something akin to desperation, her lips parted, rapid breaths puffing warm over Clarke’s lips.

_She kissed her._

It was as easy and natural as anything else Clarke had ever done by instinct. As simple as breathing. She didn’t know who closed the gap, but one moment they were both breathing one another in and the next, their mouths were pressed together. Lexa was impossibly soft against her, warm, and Clarke realized all at once that she was wrong about breathing being easy before. She felt as though she had never breathed properly until this moment, which made little sense considering how much difficulty she was having sucking air into her lungs, but she would happily remain here like this, motionless, pressed into Lexa, propping herself up with one hand on Lexa’s knee and the other clenched tightly over Lexa’s fist, their mouths fixed perfectly together.

But all too soon, the need for air won out, and she and Lexa broke apart. They remained close for a while longer, ragged breaths mixing, foreheads resting together, until Clarke managed to force her eyes to open and she found Lexa already watching her with a particularly dark shade of green Clarke had only ever seen on a handful of occasions. She very nearly kissed her again, except then Lexa blinked, and blinked once more, before drawing back and putting space between them. She pulled her arm free from beneath Clarke’s grip as she hauled herself to her feet, bracing against the tree trunk when she swayed unsteadily. 

“We, um. We.” She cleared her throat, shaking her head as though to clear it. “We should probably head back, it— it will be dark soon.” The sun had yet to even set, but Clarke couldn’t find her voice. “We can, um. We can read more tomorrow.” She blinked; her face had gone from red to pale, drained of all colour, and uneasiness curdled in the pit of Clarke’s stomach. She’s not quite sure what happened, except she’s squirming beneath the uncomfortable sensation that something that felt so right should have felt wrong, and there was perhaps wrong with Clarke for not knowing that. “If you...if you still want to, that is.”

The uncertain implication behind those words coupled with the terror in Lexa’s face as she said them had Clarke propelling to her feet. “Of course I want to.” She tilts her head, mouth suddenly dry as fear trickles through her— fear that they had ruined and destroyed everything. “Do you?”

“Of course,” Lexa said quickly, and it provided enough relief Clarke felt weak in the knees. 

The relief was short-lived, however. They remained standing in silence thick enough one could not so much as cut it with a knife, and the longer they stood there, looking anywhere but at the other, the more Clarke burned. She shifted her weight on her legs, dazedly noting she’d never been lost under such tumultuous emotions, a verifiable maelstrom that crashed into her with all the strength and ferocity of ships wrecking into the rocks at Floukru Cove.

“We…” Clarke’s voice trailed away as dizziness flooded her again; she could scarcely believe what just happened. Despite the anxiety that was itching at the bottom of her spine, there was an exhilarating thrill thrumming like the wings of a hummingbird in her chest. She looked at her friend in an entirely new light, and realized the light wasn’t actually _new_ at all. 

“Naught happened,” said Lexa quickly, and Clarke blinked, jarred and taken aback. Her denial brought Clarke back to the ground with an abrupt jolt, for she had been at risk of surely floating right up off her toes and sailing clear into the very sky itself.

“Lexa…” she began helplessly, but Lexa shook her head at once. 

“Don’t.”

“We kissed.” Saying the words aloud was frightening, but this was Lexa; this was her dearest friend, the person she trusted most in this whole entire world. A girl who was always so fearless, whom Clarke had once watched stand tall and proud against her father, jaw set and eyes blazing, despite the imminent belting she would undoubtedly receive as punishment for her failure to complete her chores in favor of accompanying Clarke and her mother to town. A girl Clarke had once spent a tense afternoon huddled in the kitchen with, tending to her bloody, bruised knuckles after a tussle with John Murphy, a low-born boy who had tried one too many times to pester Clarke by attempting to lift her skirts to display her shins for all the world to see—and another belting from her father lay waiting for her then, too, which was perhaps why she seemed so reluctant to leave Clarke’s care, watching her quietly as she’d bandaged her up with the clumsy hands of a child, and thanking her with a blush when Clarke gently kissed her knuckles to urge them to heal. 

For as long as she’d ever known her, back when they were wee babes and Lexa’s wild mane of hair was nearly as big as her entire scrawny body, Lexa had been bold. So larger than life in her fierce spirit and unyielding confidence.

Yet now she stood before Clarke looking so shaky and willowy she appeared in danger of being knocked over by even the gentlest of breezes, and her eyes were filled with more trepidation than Clarke could ever have imagined her capable of feeling. 

And Clarke was tempted for a moment, by guilt and her own fear, to follow Lexa’s initiative and let it go. 

But her lips tingled and everything about that kiss was magic, and she knew if they didn’t discuss it now then they never would. And if there was one thing Clarke was known for, it was her mettlesome relentlessness. 

“We—”

“Stop.”

“We _kissed_ ,” Clarke persisted. Her entire body bloomed with warmth at the mere words. “It just happened, I can still feel you on my lips— how can you deny it?”

“Clarke, _stop_.” Clarke’s heart twisted into a hard, painful little knot, and she had never known such devastation as watching Lexa shake her head in dismissal. “You don’t—you don’t have to say anything. I understand.” There was a split second of blinding pain as those two little words sank in. Lexa understood? She understood but she didn’t feel the same way, she was rejecting— whatever this is? But then Lexa continued, “You were just…caught up in the book.” Clarke blinked, not connecting the words until Lexa lifted the thing in her hands, gave it this small, pitiful gesturing wave.

Lexa froze when Clarke gave an angry scoff before marching over to her and snatching the book right out of her hand. Lexa cried out in protest when Clarke promptly flung it away; it hit the tree trunk and fell with a final thud to the ground. 

“The book, the book! I don’t care about the book! That wasn’t— that wasn’t why I kissed you.”

Lexa looked at her, struck dumb, her exquisite countenance a mixture of dread and heartbreaking hope that seemed so unfamiliar on her features yet the longer Clarke looked at it, the more she realized how often Lexa wore it when looking at her.

“I kissed you because every part of me has ached to for as long as I can remember,” Clarke said, voice hushed, her heart thrashing wildly and her hands trembling violently at her sides, desperate to reach for Lexa, who stood there shell-shocked. “I—I don’t know how this is possible, or what it means. All I know is that you are my favourite person, and the most beautiful girl I have ever seen, and I can’t take my eyes off you for fear you’ll disappear as I’ve imagined you up because you are _so_...you are so precious and _perfect_ to me.” She swallowed hard and Lexa echoed it, green eyes wide and glossy and filled with fear and awe that Clarke was sure was reflected in her own. “And all I may do is pray that you can understand even a margin of all this I’m telling you. That you—that perhaps you kissed me back, and your own reasoning had little to do with the book as well.”

Silence, save for her heart pounding. Lexa took a shaky breath and exhaled it, once, twice, before swallowing again, and whispering, “I feel as if I can no longer remember a time when I did not want to kiss you.”

Warmth bled through the shock that stilled Clarke’s body, the relentless, fervish _hope_ that wracked her spine. There was a time to worry about what all this meant, Clarke knew. A time to be struck with terror at how cruel life is, to love someone in the dark, forbidden, stuck in a world where they could be killed for it. 

But right then, they stood in their meadow, the orchard just behind them. It was sunny and warm, a gentle breeze ruffling their hair. Lexa’s cheeks were pretty and pink and Clarke’s heart was so swollen she was sure it could burst. 

Lexa took a deep breath, her eyes shining with that hope again, and Clarke felt it spread its own wings ever wider in her chest. “May I kiss you again?” asked Lexa, voice soft but hopeful.

Clarke bit her lip to curb her beaming smile, already tilting her face up expectantly. Just before their lips met, she paused, and Lexa’s brow knit in concern, previously half mast eyes lifting in renewed alarm. “For future reference, you can assume the answer to that question is always an unequivocal yes, so as to avoid wasting any unnecessary time asking me that, and skip right to the kissing.”

Lexa’s lips quirked in Clarke’s favourite crooked smile. “Is that truly preferable, my lady?”

“It truly is, my lady.”

Lexa’s eyes lowered again, dark, focused on Clarke’s mouth, and Clarke couldn’t help the way her own gaze drifted to lips she now knew were every bit as soft as they looked. “Then it will be done. As you know, I follow no one’s orders but your own.”

“Lexa.”

“Yes?”

“Please kiss me already.”

“As you wish.”

When their lips met again, it felt like coming home. Clarke shivered under the onslaught of emotions rushing through her, leaving her weak-kneed and trembling. And just when she thought it couldn’t get any better than this, Lexa’s mouth opened beneath her own. 

Their tongues didn’t yet meet—Clarke was too shy to broach that far forward, and Lexa must have felt the same. But Clarke could still smell the fruit from the orchard on her breath, knew she would taste of it, burned to find out. But she didn’t. Couldn’t. Not yet.

Clarke had no idea what she was doing, but she seemed to be faring fairly well all things considered. She moved on instinct, her hands clutching Lexa’s forearms, fingers twisting into the fabric and gripping, pulling despite the fact that it was nigh impossible for them to be any closer than they were, hips aligned, breasts and stomachs flat together, so close she could feel the wild beat of Lexa’s heart keeping time against her own.

Their lips moved with a whisper of movement, languid and soft and slow. Though a part of Clarke was roaring, aching and urging her to drive recklessly forward, to tangle her hands into Lexa’s rich curls and kiss her with abandon, another part of her purred, content to remain here in this perfect bubble she never, ever wanted to leave. The gentle breeze stirred golden leaves from the tree and they floated down all around them; the birds sang a beautiful tune that wrapped around her heart. Lexa’s lips were soft and warm and Clarke had never known something so perfect could exist.

By the time they parted for air and Clarke opened her eyes again, the world around them was considerably darker. The sun was inching lower over the horizon, and the sky behind them, towardss home, was as dark as the pupils focused on Clarke. Lexa’s eyes were wide and dark and luminous, and her hands no longer shook so violently as they squeezed around Clarke’s own. They stared at one another for a second longer before they each split into breathless, giddy grins, delirious with one another.

“You are so beautiful,” Lexa whispered, and if Clarke did not blush at the words she most certainly did when Lexa reached up to tuck a curl of Clarke’s hair behind her ear. “There’s so much I want to tell you. So many thoughts I’ve kept to myself all this time.”

“I have the same plight but I fear there are not enough hours in the day,” Clarke confessed, grinning more broadly when Lexa gave a breathless laugh. She joined in a moment later, their sweet laughter echoing around the meadow, before they finally sobered, eyes shut and foreheads tipped together, gentle smiles curving their lips.

She could stay here forever. Truly, Clarke would be happy to. To forget about the lives that wait for them outside of this place, full of endless responsibilities Clarke didn’t even want to think about facing. One day she and Lexa both would move on from their duties of caring for their fathers and instead care for their eventual husbands and children. The thought moved Clarke to nausea, but she swiftly pushed it out of her mind. That is then, and this is now— and right now, Lexa was in her arms. 

But the day was ending, dusk was approaching, and Clarke couldn’t bear it if Lexa was punished for being late. 

“We need to return home,” Clarke sighed, wrenching the words free. 

Lexa’s face crumpled with devastation, hanging her head and shutting her eyes as though she’d never heard such terrible news. Clarke hid her smile by kissing her again, chastely, resisting the urge to sink into it. 

“You know we do. Your father already fears I am too much trouble for you, and you arriving home late again won’t help matters.”

Lexa still hadn’t opened her eyes, but her lips quirked as she tipped her forehead against Clarke’s, arms wrapping around her shoulders. “You _are_ trouble for me, Clarke Griffin.”

Clarke hummed, loving the feel of being in Lexa’s arms. Loving the way it feels to have Lexa in her own, as she winds her arms around Lexa’s slim waist. “As if you don’t go looking for it on your own.”

“I would always go looking for you.” 

The sincerity broke the teasing, and Clarke expelled a shaky sigh, her heart fluttering, tightening her arms to hold Lexa close. Lexa returned the embrace, the both of them burying their faces in one another’s neck and hair, breathing each other in. 

And then, as all things do, their time had to come to an end.

Lexa gathered her book and took the hand Clarke held out for her. They made the whole journey back, some twenty minute walk, with their fingers entwined, walking in a comfortable silence filled with shy smiles and furtive glances.

By the time they emerged from the woods, the sun was nearly gone, dousing the world in shadows. They dropped one another’s hands and their smiles slipped away when they neared their houses. Titus’s carriage was pulled up the drive, and the house windows glowed from the lit lanterns.

Clarke’s heart sank as she turned to see Lexa’s grim face.

“We can lie. I can fake an injury, a limp, and we’ll say you helped me—”

“You know that doesn’t matter, Clarke.” Lexa’s shoulders were rigid and stiff, even as she sighed. “It’s nothing new. I’ll be fine.” 

Clarke opened her mouth to protest, but before she could say anything, Lexa turned to fully face her, and Clarke’s mind went blank beneath Lexa’s full attention. She found it difficult to meet her eyes when her own kept dropping to Lexa’s full lips. 

Lexa clearly noticed, if the way a corner of them quirked up was any indication.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said seriously, her voice low. She glanced over her shoulder, ensuring no one was around, before grasping Clarke’s hand and lifting it to her lips. Clarke smothered a quiet gasp, her heart thudding ever faster, and wished for nothing more than to push Lexa back against the wooden fence they stood beside and kiss her senseless. “We can go to the meadow and finish _Carmilla_ , if you’d like.”

“Always,” Clarke answered, gaze still fixed on those damning lips. “Or,” she added, voice slipping into a lower octave, one that has Lexa’s grip on her hand automatically tightening, “perhaps we could find something else to do.”

She would happily have almost all of her company with Lexa be spent kissing, if she had it her way. By the brightening of Lexa’s eyes and consequent smile, she felt the same way, and that more than anything had elation soaring within Clarke. She half wondered if the moment Lexa stepped away, she truly would just float off into the sky.

“Goodnight, my lady,” whispered Lexa as she stepped back.

“Goodnight, Lexa.”

Clarke’s arm remained extended though she stayed standing where she was, loathe to lose contact with Lexa, but Lexa’s slender fingers moved across her palm, down her own fingers, and then skimmed over her fingertips, until there was naught but air and Clarke had no choice but to lamely drop her arm, watching, speechless and enamored, as Lexa walked backwards a few steps, maintaining intense eye contact before giving her one last soft smile and turning to enter her house. 

Clarke stood there for another moment, dazed, overwhelmed, so in love she couldn’t at all think clearly. She could scarcely believe the events of the day. After all this time, she finally— _finally—_ had Lexa the way she barely even let herself dream of before.

She practically skipped home.

Her father was asleep, as usual. Clarke pulled his blanket more securely around him, brushed a kiss across the blonde hair flopping over his forehead before setting about to make them dinner. Her mother arrived not long after, tired but content, and idly discussed her work day with Clarke as she puttered around the woodstove. As unorthodox as her mother’s job was, Clarke was grateful she had it. She enjoyed it, and it put a bit more bread on the table, considering the state of Clarke’s father. Not to mention there was a part of Clarke that was proud— women weren’t typically allowed so much free reign in what was considered to be a man’s job, but her mother had slipped into it; she’d served as a companion to the wife of lord Jackson, the town doctor, and after she passed, her mother had still stuck by her husband’s side to comfort and help him. Jackson eventually began bringing her mother to work with him, letting her help him tend to his patients, and her mother turned out to have a natural affinity for it— not altogether surprising considering she’d grown up caring for her own father’s war wounds, then helping her husband with his sickness. Abby was so accomplished there was seldom a complainer amongst the town residents that there was a female working and getting paid for what only men had typically done before. 

When her mother asked how her day went, Clarke busied herself with the food to hide her blush. She was still too elated to be bothered by the guilt and fear curdling somewhere inside her, but she can’t help but to wonder what her mother’s reaction would be, if she were to discover the nature of Clarke and Lexa’s new...relationship, with one another. Likely furious, as anyone would be. Their family wasn’t upper-class, so they didn’t have the privilege for such dalliances. The best thing Clarke could do for her family was marry a decent man, though she couldn’t now with her father and their home to take care of. The thought of it— of one day having to kiss lips that did not belong to Lexa— turned Clarke’s stomach, so she tried not to think about it, and pushed it out of her mind.

For the remainder of the night, she was too filled with joy, too preoccupied with all the possibilities to think of the negative consequences. She cared not for the thoughts of her parents, of anyone.

She went straight upstairs for bed after she finished cleaning up after dinner, pulling back the curtains to gaze at the window just across from her own, the roofs so close she could step out and dart across to the other house; they had done that before, countless times, always careful to stifle their giggles and sneak back before long to avoid punishment from their parents- more so from Lexa’s father, who was far stricter and less inclined to moments of joviality than Clarke’s parents. 

Lexa’s room was dark, curtains drawn; Clarke’s heart sank, concern and anger on Lexa’s behalf soaking into her. She hoped she wasn’t punished too severely, and that she was downstairs finishing her chores rather than being belted.

Clarke left her window open to be safe, on the chance Lexa would come to it before she was in her bed. She swallowed at the sudden knot in her throat as she stood before her mirror, perhaps farther back than usual to remain in proximity to her window, and began undressing. Her fingers shook slightly as she made quick work of her corset. She lost her nerve and took a few quick steps forward, out of sight, when she was bare, yanking her nightgown over her head and distractedly brushing down her tousled hair. By the time her heart stopped racing, she dared a peek out her window and her heart sank again when she saw it was still dark. 

She sighed and crawled into bed. As she lay, visions of their earlier time sprung entirely bidden into her head, and the memory of Lexa pressed so close to her, of her soft lips and the way she’d stolen the very breath from Clarke’s lungs, of the taste and smell and feel of her, had Clarke burying her smile in her pillow. It took a very long time before she was finally able to fall asleep.

The next day, Lexa had still not emerged. After Clarke finished her chores of cleaning and preparing fibers for later sewing, she couldn’t bear the silence any longer and marched over to Lexa’s house. Hardly a minute after rapping on the door it swung open to reveal Titus Woods, tall and garbed in his usual black suit, his face drawn with stern consternation. As usual, he did not look particularly pleased to see Clarke.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Clarke said, her voice stronger than she felt. “I wondered if perhaps Lexa could come out to accompany me to—”

“No.” Titus did not so much as even bother providing an explanation, even when Clarke paused. 

Clarke swallowed down her rage, forced a smile, and tried again. “Well you see, it’s rather dangerous for a young woman to brave the walk to Tondc markets alone, so I rather hoped Lexa could—”

“I said no, girl.” The impassive expression twitched away as irritation bled over Titus’s long face again. Not for the first time, Clarke marveled over the fact that he was Lexa’s father. She looked nothing like the wretched man. “She’s not allowed out. She has chores to complete. Leave.”

Clarke clenched her teeth so tightly they hurt, and forced herself to dip down into a shallow curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”

He shut the door in her face without another word, and Clarke had to fight to resist pounding on it and demanding they have another word. She had no choice but to turn away, fuming and miserable at the prospect of spending an entire day without Lexa, let alone however longer Titus might keep her locked up. 

The day dragged by unbearably slowly. The only positive aspect of it was that her father was having a good day, and was able to sit up and speak with her for a considerable amount of time as she sewed him a pair of new britches. He fell asleep not long after dinner, as usual, and she stayed up a while more talking to her mother, complaining about Titus, which was nothing her mother hadn’t heard before and which she did not particularly help, as always, instead sighing and reminding Clarke that Titus was a higher class and a widowed man and she should be more understanding. Clarke hid her scoff and eye roll and quickly dismissed herself for bed.

She became even more morose upon ascending the stairs to her room and finding the window across from her own dark and still. She burned with longing so strongly it stung her eyes— she _missed_ Lexa, and it was not fair that only yesterday she finally kissed her and then today has not even been blessed with a single glimpse of her.

She bathed, winding her wet hair up into a chignon before slipping into her loose fitting nightgown and crawling into bed. She lay there for some time, as wide awake as the night before, swamped with memories that beat high in her chest and simmered low in her stomach with such strength she could barely comprehend what it meant, before she heard her name whispered into the night.

She bolted up from bed and scrambled to her window; her heart thrashed like mad, a giddy smile spreading on her face when she saw Lexa standing at her own open window. 

“Oh, Lexa,” she breathed, voice weak with relief. Joy flooded through her at the sight of her. “I missed you.”

“And I you,” Lexa whispered back, voice equally emotional.

They simply looked at one another. Lexa appeared tired, paler than usual, and judging by the frizzy curls escaping her pleated hair had been working all through the day. 

“How are you?” Clarke asked, voice hushed. “Are you hurt?” She could kill Titus if he hurt her.

“I’m alright,” Lexa said, a small, weary smile softly curving her lips at Clarke’s concern. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you today.”

“It’s hardly your fault.”

“It is, really. I knew I would be late, but...I couldn’t stop myself…” The air thickened with tension as Lexa’s voice trailed away; as her gaze lingered on Clarke; licked her lips, blinked, looked away. 

Clarke suffered no such mortification. Her heart beat faster, her stomach flipping as she recalled exactly what they had done to make Lexa late home, and all she wanted now was to kiss her again.

“Will you climb over here?” 

Lexa’s face tinted red with her blush, wide eyes darting down south from Clarke’s gaze before averting to Lexa’s own feet. “No, it—I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

Oh. Clarke took in what she hoped was a slow, discreet intake of breath, and resisted the urge to reach down and adjust her gown. “It’s plenty appropriate, we’ve done it countless times before.”

And they had. When they were children, their parents were far more lenient upon finding them curled up asleep together, their dolls scattered around them; as they grew older they were decidedly less so, particularly in Titus’s case. After Lexa was punished for it, they began sneaking instead, always sure to retire back to their own rooms when sleep became imminent.

Now, of course, there was an entirely new level of tension layered over the possibilities. And those possibilities included many, _many_ kisses. The thought had Clarke’s breath hitching again. 

When those green eyes flickered back up to meet Clarke’s, they were darker, more intense than she was accustomed to, and it caused her to promptly lose the breath she had only just regained. “I mean that I don’t imagine it will be easy for me to remain appropriate if I am over there with you right now, Clarke.”

Clarke bit her bottom lip, her stomach twisting with the heat Lexa’s words poured into her. 

“That’s quite alright with me,” she murmured, her face warming as she watched Lexa’s further redden. _In fact, I encourage it,_ she thought, not quite finding the courage to say it aloud.

“ _Clarke_ ,” Lexa said brokenly, visibly torn.

Clarke decided to spare her, and gave a quiet laugh. “Fine. I don’t want you to risk any more punishment anyway. Did your father say when you are free to leave the house again?”

Lexa shook her head, and both of their shoulders slumped in disappointment. “He has me fashioning new clothes for him, and you know that takes some time- especially for me.”

Lexa had never been a particularly patient person when it came to sewing. 

“I can help you,” Clarke whispered eagerly. “If we finish early, perhaps we can go through the orchard.”

Her heart sank when Lexa shook her head, but rose again when Lexa said, “He’s riding to Arkadia for a sermon tomorrow; he should be gone most of the day.” Lexa’s smile lit up her entire face, and did such peculiar things to Clarke’s heart. “Perhaps we can slip off to our meadow and spend most of the day there.”

Normally Clarke would tease Lexa, as she always did, for her blatant disregard of her father’s wishes. Right then it was all she could do not to swoon out of the very window. She nodded, her mouth dry with anticipation. “I would love that.”

Lexa’s smile stretched into a grin. “So would I.”

They spent the rest of the night talking, hushed voices carrying across the small space between their windows, until it grew far too late and they reluctantly retired to bed before Titus could catch them up. Again, Clarke struggled to fall asleep, painfully aware of Lexa’s presence only just next door, snug and warm in her own bed. _This girl,_ she thought with a shaky, breathless sigh. 

The next day, Clarke came dangerously close to not completing her chores, so distracted she was. Even her father, half asleep and more than often out of his mind with his illness, noticed her preoccupation. She brushed off his hoarse teasing before he drifted back into slumber, and found herself taking extra care when she dressed for the outing. 

Clarke slipped away as soon as she could. She had hardly lifted a hand to knock upon Lexa’s front door when it swung open, and there Lexa stood in the frame, flushed and breathless and glowing with anticipation; everything inside Clarke squirmed pleasantly at the sight of her. Lexa’s hair was down, she hadn’t even pinned it up; it cascaded down one shoulder in soft, loose curls. Her lips were so very pink and full and Clarke clutched the sides of her dress to stop herself from reaching out, pulling Lexa into a kiss in full view of the world.

“Ready?” asked Lexa breathlessly, and all Clarke could do was nod.

She only just remembered to take a step back on the stoop to give Lexa space as she stepped forward, pulling the door shut behind her; it had them standing far closer together than they normally would, breasts brushing with each breath, and the tension suddenly rose to such an unbearable height that Clarke forgot how to breathe. Lexa paused, and the two of them seemed to gravitate even closer together, eyes fixed upon one another’s lips— until the sound of a cantering horse abruptly near as someone rode past, and they startled apart with a jolt, Lexa stumbling down the steps, a look of shock on her face as she pushed her hair back and looked up at Clarke with wide eyes. Then they smiled wryly at one another, biting their lips to curb their nervous laughter.

“Let’s go,” Clarke urged, eager to reach their place, and Lexa nodded at once in agreement.

She couldn’t take her eyes off Lexa as they walked down the narrow forest path. The thick canopy of trees above them cast dappled shadows that shifted over Lexa, bathed her in some otherworldly magic that had Clarke stumbling over protruding tree roots more often than once. When Lexa glanced back in concern and wordlessly offered a hand, the flood of warmth was instantly worth it. They walked the rest of the way clutching hands, which they had admittedly done a fair few times before but which had a much different weight this time, and went in companionable silence filled with frequent, shy smiles and skittering eye contact. 

They plucked their favourite fruits from the trees and bushes as they made their way through the orchard. Their arms were full by the time they knelt down before the trunk of their beloved oak tree, Lexa carefully spreading out the small, tattered threadbare blanket she’d had since she was a child before Clarke allowed the heap of apples, peaches, and blackberries to tumble from her arms. Lexa rolled her eyes in playful disapproval when Clarke grinned, tongue tucked mischievously between her teeth, as she sprinkled a pinch of the sugar she’d shoved into her pocket over the blackberries, though Lexa certainly didn’t complain when she popped one into her mouth and hummed appreciatively. Clarke did the same a second later, immensely pleased as the tart sweetness burst with flavour over her tongue, and upon opening her eyes found Lexa watching her closely, a blush painting her lovely cheeks. It deepened when she cut her gaze away upon being caught.

It was tense but never stilted as they made their way through the fruit with the occasional murmur and quiet laughter. Clarke felt as though she was too big for her body, awkward and jumpy each time she and Lexa reached for a piece of fruit at the same time and their fingers brushed; she wanted more than anything to kiss her, but did not know how to initiate it now that they were here, and she wasn’t certain if Lexa felt the same or perhaps if she simply wasn’t as overcome with longing as Clarke was. 

Eventually they settled into their usual routine. By the time the fruit was consumed the air had lightened, and Clarke could set aside the burning within her to enjoy the peace of the day with Lexa. When Lexa asked if she would like her to begin reading, Clarke nodded at once, curling into Lexa’s side as she always did when Lexa relaxed back against the tree and opened her book over her knees. 

And now here they were. 

* * *

Time drifts like the leaves falling from the tree; there are hardly any left, the branches nearly bare now. Still, they settle into the comfort of their routine, and Clarke dozes against Lexa’s shoulder. She is so lost in the comfort of this small pocket of peace that she doesn’t yet realize Lexa is nearing the end of the novel. 

_“The following Spring my father took me a tour through Italy. We remained away for more than a year. It was long before the terror of recent events subsided; and to this hour the image of Carmilla returns to memory with ambiguous alternations--sometimes the playful, languid, beautiful girl…”_ A pause, followed by rustling as Lexa turns the page. Clarke smiles lazily at the words, at the truth that shimmers, only just visible and translucent, as real as the morning dew clinging to the foliage. _“...sometimes the writhing fiend I saw in the ruined church; and often from a reverie I have started, fancying I heard the light step of Carmilla at the drawing room door.”_

“Is that it?” Clarke questions, though it’s answered for her when Lexa shuts the book; her slender fingers linger on the pages, hooked over the spine. Amusement bubbles in Clarke’s chest, suppressed before it can rise up her throat and make itself known. Lexa has always been like this. She swims through books with the same reckless drive as the carp that leap their way up the raging river every summer, but she always hovers when she finishes them, a little uncertain as though disconcerted to find herself surfacing from another world, and a part of her always clings on, loathe to fully let go; she always spends some measure of time simply holding the book, fingers dipped within the pages in both a somber _“farewell”_ and a desperate _“I can’t yet bear to part from you.”_

Clarke has paid an awful amount of keen attention noting the way Lexa directs her touch.

“I rather liked this one,” says Clarke sleepily, not yet moving from where she is curled up into Lexa’s side. She fingers the pills of loose threads on the sleeve of Lexa’s dress. “It feels as though we finished it quickly.”

“That is because you slept your way through most of it,” Lexa says, matter-of-fact and light enough Clarke knows she is being teased. “As you always do.”

“I’m sure I can’t help the fact that you have such a calming voice.” Clarke pokes at her side, burying her growing smile in Lexa’s shoulder when she squirms. “It’s your fault.”

“Oh, you always put the blame on me!” Lexa finally sets her book down, carefully balancing it on the thick tree root that serves as a makeshift arm rest on her other side, and Clarke’s lips quirk higher. A little ribbing always serves as an effective measure to coax Lexa out of her completed novel blues. “Just like the time you stole Mrs Green’s raspberry tart and, remind me, who did you claim committed such a heinous act?”

Clarke buries her face even deeper, nose flat against Lexa’s arm. “We were hardly seven summers! I can’t believe you still hold it against me.”

Lexa shifts to face her, and Clarke has no choice but to lift her head lest she wants to fall face-first into the ground. She pushes her tangled curls out of her face, rather pink cheeked at finding herself so suddenly the subject of that jade gaze, and bites back a smile when she notices Lexa’s stoicism.

“One day,” Lexa begins imperiously, and Clarke watches her with expectant amusement. “I shall bake the best raspberry tart in existence, and I’ll consume it before you with no quarter. Even if you beg it of me, I won’t give you a single taste, and you’ll have no choice but to watch me eat it with all the gusto in the world while your poor stomach rumbles. And afterwards, I’ll laugh at your misfortune for hours on end.”

Lexa manages to get through the whole speech with only a minor twitch of her lips threatening to betray her mirth. Clarke tried her best to maintain the same serious facade, adopting a pout as she reaches out to grasp at Lexa’s arm, tugging at her sleeve. “How could you be so cruel to your most favoured person in your life? After all I’ve done for you. I’ve read so many books to you all of my own gracious will.”

It’s a baldfaced lie. Even Lexa can’t resist snorting, rolling her eyes to the heavens.

“You and I must have quite dissimilar views on what constitutes reading. You see, for me, it involves eyes being open, and utter consciousnesses. For you, it involves snoring and giving me a deadened arm.”

Clarke gasps, pinching Lexa’s arm and ignoring how she cries out a laugh and swats her away. “Snoring! I do no such thing.” Her smile turns crooked, lopsided as she runs a hand through her waves of hair. “Are you telling me I don’t resemble a sleeping angel?”

Satisfaction flutters in her chest and stomach when Lexa takes the slightest moment of hesitation, lips parting and eyes darting away from Clarke’s. Then she rolls them again, looks back at Clarke and presses her lips together in a cool smirk.

She pokes her cheek. “You are so full of hot air I worry a simple accidental prick of a needle would pop you.”

Clarke groans when Lexa rolls her to her feet, not quite able to prevent the whine from colouring her tone. “Why are you getting up? Come sit back down. Surely we have more time.”

“The sun is beginning to set,” Lexa points out, jerking a thumb towards the horizon behind her. The orange light frames her wiry figure, lights her up as though she’s some otherworldly being intent on dismantling Clarke’s every thought. Perhaps she truly is. “Father will be returning soon, you know I should be there when he is. I’ll already be in trouble, I was supposed to sew him a new overcoat. He’ll see that I’ve not even touched the wheel.”

Clarke sighs, though she makes no move to stand. She looks down and picks at the threads in her own dress; the hem is already slightly unraveled from previous fidgeting. “I have some of my father's. You can take one.”

Lexa softened at once, the angry anxiety bristling violently from her like static energy every time she spoke of her father fading at Clarke’s suggestion. “Clarke...no. You can’t keep covering for me like this. Those are your father’s, you should keep them. You must.”

Clarke shrugs, head bowed. “It isn’t as though he needs them, Lexa. They may as well be put to use.”

“Even if that were true, my father is the last person who deserves them.” Lexa’s voice is flat, hard. The urge to soften and smooth it overtakes Clarke, and she finally climbs to her feet, taking a moment to pat the dirt loose from her dress before finally lifting her gaze to meet Lexa’s. She feels the resulting shock waves in her heart, as she always does. 

Though her hands shake, she reaches out to take Lexa’s hands. They’re slim and soft and fit perfectly against her palms as their fingers intertwine. “I’m sorry your father is such a brute.” She pauses, suddenly shy, as an overwhelming anxiety pulsates inside her. This is perhaps the most terrifying thing she’s ever had to do, but she does it because she must. “I think we ought to talk.”

A pregnant pause swells between them. Clarke tries her best to rub a soothing pattern over Lexa’s knuckles with her thumbs, though her hands are shaking quite badly. 

“I’m frightened that speaking it aloud will ruin this,” Lexa finally murmurs. Clarke’s legs shake beneath her.

“Then we don’t have to talk at all."

Lexa’s eyes widen before she blinks, forehead furrowing; Clarke can’t look away from the manner in which she bites her bottom lip in contemplation. 

“What would you have us do?” she says finally, and her voice is quiet, steady save for the undercurrent that runs through it— there’s a challenge hidden somewhere in there, Clarke is sure of it. And she knows as well as Lexa does that she’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

Clarke takes a deep breath and decides this is a situation much like all those summer afternoons over the years that she and Lexa visited Sienne Lake, and it was easier to dive headfirst into the freezing water rather than wade in and suffer it bit by bit, even if Clarke did stick to the shallows since she’s a poor swimmer. She can’t aim for the shallows this time, though. Now, Clarke takes the leap.

“I want to kiss you.”

Lexa’s sharp intake of breath is visible. She doesn’t respond right away, and Clarke says nothing more; they look at one another from where they stand only a foot apart, hands linked, and Clarke can feel the tension stretching the air taut; close to breaking.

“I am worried,” says Lexa finally, her voice soft and unsure, “that will bring the most ruin of all.”

“Perhaps we should find out together,” Clarke suggests, no longer trying to hide the tremble that wracks her body or the way she can’t tear her gaze from Lexa’s mouth. She notes with a thrill that Lexa can’t seem to look away from her own. She squeezes Lexa’s hand, triumph surging through her when Lexa squeezes back and then tugs Clarke ever nearer. 

“Are you certain?” Lexa softly persists one last time, when there’s hardly an inch of space between them and Clarke’s eyes are so heavy-lidded she’s not certain she could look up even if she wanted to.

Clarke nods, the movement bringing them even closer, and takes one last pause, breath mixing with Lexa’s, to ask, “Are you?”

Lexa nods at once; it brings the tips of their noses together, softly grazing, and Clarke can’t take it anymore. She presses forward, her mouth fitting perfectly against Lexa’s. 

The world could tip upside down and Clarke simply would not notice. Her body feels more alive than it ever has before as they stand there, mouths pressed together, everything in the universe slotting into place in this instant. This is everything. The point of it all. Clarke is most certain of it. And despite the fact that Lexa may be right— not that she’ll ever admit that to her— she knows there’s no stopping this. Clarke cannot even recall the single instance in her life when she realized she loved Lexa; cannot pinpoint the moment where that love shifted into what it is now, and she found herself wondering just how soft her friend’s lips would feel against her own. Now she knows, and there’s no going back, nor would Clarke ever want to. _This?_ This is _everything_.

She’s closer to Lexa than she ever has been before and yet still she yearns for more. She wraps her arms around Lexa’s waist, pulls ever nearer, fronts pressed completely together, so close she swears Lexa must feel her heart nearly pounding out of her very chest. She parts her lips, mimicking the same movement Lexa did last time, and gently closes them over Lexa’s bottom lip, stifling a moan in the hollow of her throat at the sensation, as Lexa’s arms slip around her shoulders, as Clarke moves her hands up to feel the curve of her waist, the stretch of her back, the line of her arms. Lexa turns her head, changing the angle of the kiss, her lips parting, and Clarke drifts thoughtlessly farther in the kiss, instinctively running her tongue over the curve of that bottom lip that had always drawn her eye and lingered in her mind for _years_. She feels Lexa’s breath hitch rather than hears it, and then the air between them shifts again, thickening, intensifying, when Lexa slides her tongue against Clarke’s. 

The flavour of her bursts in Clarke’s mouth. Lexa tastes of blackberries and sugar, sweet apples and honeyed peaches, and something so enticing and impossible to describe that it must simply be something intrinsically Lexa. She doesn’t think before bringing her hands up behind Lexa’s arms, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress at her shoulder blades, clutching and very nearly whimpering into Lexa’s mouth as the kiss deepens. Her head _spins_ ; her body _burns_ ; her heart _aches_. She never, ever wants this to end.

They kiss for so long that when they finally part for breath, their chests heaving, Clarke’s lips are numb and tingling. As if both under the same trance, they lift a hand to their own mouths at the same time, fingertips brushing over their kiss-swollen lips; perhaps normally they would grin at each other upon realizing they’ve done the same thing simultaneously, but nothing about this situation feels particularly amusing. Lexa’s eyes are hooded, a dark, hazy green that looks so unlike any shade Clarke has seen in them before, and the apples of her cheeks are stained a red nearly as deep as her lips, and her hair is tousled— though Clarke does not remember putting her hands in it, she must have. 

“You were right,” Clarke says, her voice a thick rasp, such a lower register than she’s ever heard that it takes even her by surprise. By the way Lexa blinks, throat bobbing as she swallows thickly, Clarke thinks it must have taken her aback as well. 

“About—” Lexa clears her voice when it comes out as hardly a croak. “About what?”

Clarke nods slowly, wetting her lips as her gaze drifts down from jade eyes to that kiss-bruised mouth. “This is ruinous.”

Silence swells between them; Clarke suspects Lexa is uncertain whether or not she should take those words the wrong way. There is a line between Lexa’s brow, and a muscle in her jaw shifts as she clenches it, working up the courage to ask her next question.

“What would you have me do? I can go, if you like—” She cuts off when Clarke immediately shakes her head, and that line in her brow fades as she realises Clarke has been staring so intently at her lips. 

“Ruin me again,” Clarke begs, voice rough with longing; so Lexa does.

Lexa steps forward without even a second’s hesitation, hands automatically slipping into Clarke’s hair, blonde tresses tangling around her fingers as she pulls Clarke close to her, their hips and breasts aligned as she captures Clarke’s lips. Clarke sighs into her mouth, hums in appreciation when Lexa takes advantage and licks into her, bites at her bottom lip and kisses her with more ardor than Clarke ever thought could possibly exist in a single person save for herself in the face of Lexa’s light.

Everything loses meaning except for this. They kiss so fervently they push into each other, harder and harder until finally Lexa stumbles backwards, nearly tripping over a tree root protruding from the ground; Clarke half catches her, driving them forward until Lexa’s back slams into the tree and they part with a huff. They look at one another with dark, hooded eyes, chests rising and falling rapidly, and Clarke bites her lip.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she confesses in a whisper.

“Nor do I,” Lexa admits. Her brow furrows. “Are you alright? Do you want to stop?” She chuckles breathlessly when Clarke clutches desperately at her, shaking her head. “Alright. We should...slow. Would you...would you tell me what you’d like me to do?”

“God, I don’t know, Lex. I just…” She gives a shuddery breath, pressing harder into Lexa, tasting the groan that falls from her lips. “I just don’t want this to stop—any of it. Kiss me again.”

Lexa does so without another word, immediately capturing Clarke’s mouth in a full, deep kiss she can feel all the way to her toes. 

It doesn’t go any farther than that. Though Clarke’s hands itch to explore, she holds Lexa’s in them to keep things slow, as Lexa said. It still doesn’t stop her from pressing Lexa into the tree and kissing her senseless, but the dizzying air of desperation has lessened somewhat now, letting them both take their time to explore one another’s mouths with leisure, until they finally part for air and upon their eyes drifting open realize how dark the sky has grown.

“Oh no,” Clarke gasps, while Lexa grimaces.

“My father’s going to kill me.”

“This time you’ll let me lie for you,” Clarke says, voice growing stern when Lexa just throws her an exasperated look as she pushes off the tree and readjusts her dress. “Just go along with whatever I say.”

“Don’t I always?” 

Clarke nudges her with a shoulder, smile growing at Lexa’s laugh. It’s difficult to imagine any negative consequences when moments like these exist.

But it still doesn’t stop them from happening. 

Titus is furious by the time they reach home, and even when Clarke spins a lie of how she’d grown lost in the woods— further supported by the brambles in their dresses and twigs in their hair courtesy of stumbling along the path in the pitch black with only the distant town lanterns to guide them— he still isn’t softened. It’s far from the first time he’s denounced Clarke as a terrible influence on Lexa, but for some reason it seems to hit harder this evening. Clarke shoots Lexa a guilty, helpless look over Titus’s arm as he turns to sweep her into the house, hating the hard resignation on her face.

Clarke’s own mother is not much better. She lectures Clarke on her unladylike behavior upon laying eyes on the state of her dress and on her hours of absence that caused neglect of her father, which has Clarke shrinking in shame. By the time she is sent upstairs to bed— with no dinner, either, which makes Clarke thankful she had at least filled her stomach with fruit from the orchard earlier— she is heavy with her feelings. Most of all she worries for Lexa, and finds herself curled up in bed soaking her pillow with her tears. Is she being punished right this very moment? Will she be up all night again working her way through house work under her father’s orders? Was she belted for her insubordination? Did Clarke selfishly cause her more pain? 

Once she’s certain her parents are asleep, she creeps downstairs and into their bedroom; blindly finds her way through to the wardrobe, pulling loose one of the many pieces of clothing that had been folded and packed up since her father became bedridden years ago. She successfully sneaks it back upstairs into her room, and climbs out of her window and down the shambles, making the tiny hop across to Lexa’s house and ducking in through her open window. 

Her room is dark but Clarke navigates it by heart, folding up the overcoat and stuffing it beneath Lexa’s pillow where she’d most certainly find it thanks to her habit of sleeping on her stomach, her arms folded beneath the pillow and her head. She bites her lip, heartrate quickening, as she takes a brief second to bend down and breathe in the scent on Lexa’s pillow, letting it fill her lungs and her heart, and aches to kiss her for a moment— but she can hear her downstairs, puttering about while her father rumbles on about how consistently disappointing her behavior is. 

Clarke winces as she listens. Such high expectations were placed on Lexa from the moment she was born. Her mother died in childbirth, and her father had remained a widower all this time, declining suggestions of marrying again, much to the town’s disapproval. For all of Titus’s unpleasantness, he had apparently truly loved his late wife...so now the sole burden of a respectable marriage fell onto Lexa’s shoulders, as if it didn’t already, and the sudden realization strikes like lightning within Clarke, bringing with it an overwhelming wave of repulsion and panic. She scrambles back into her own house and curls up in bed, ducking beneath her blankets as though it can hide her from the truth.

Because that is the horrible, hideous truth. The world is only kind to men; Clarke had learnt this early on, as every girl did. She and Lexa...what they were doing now. What _were_ they doing? Was it foolish to give in to such happiness knowing it would only hurt all the more when it was inevitably taken away from them? For one day it would be. She and Lexa would eventually have to do their duties and find suitable husbands, have children, and spend the rest of their days caring for the lot of them. Clarke can’t imagine being with someone else; kissing someone who was not Lexa. Nor, she realises with an ugly flood of bitterness, could she imagine Lexa with anyone else. Kissing someone that’s not Clarke. She squeezes her eyes shut at the thought. 

She doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want any of it. All she wants is to spend all of her days with Lexa, alone beneath their tree, listening to the sound of her voice and holding her close. It’s so simple— yet Clarke is not naive enough to believe it truly is. In fact, it’s nigh impossible.

But Clarke always has been a stubborn fool.

She’s still crying by the time there’s a soft rap on her window pane. She hastily wipes at her face to hide all the evidence of tears, but still, as she watches Lexa climb through her window, she finds herself paralyzed by her thoughts, crippled with guilt and fear and jealousy, and her eyes well again. 

“Clarke? Clarke, what’s the matter?” 

Clarke ducks her head to hide her tear-stained face when Lexa climbs into her room and lights the candle on the table nearby; she sits gingerly on the edge of her bed and gently takes hold of Clarke’s arms, urging her up. 

“Oh, Clarke.”

It’s the emotion in her voice that gets to her. Clarke is overcome by another wave of sorrow, and cries harder than ever. Lexa tuts her tongue and envelops her into her arms. Clarke tries to speak, to explain, to apologise, but when she opens her mouth all that comes out is a choked sob, and Lexa softly hushes her. 

“Shh. Just let me hold you.”

It takes her a few minutes to calm down, her head burrowed against Lexa’s chest. “Lexa, I….” She doesn’t know how to admit that she’s frightened. “I don’t.” Clarke loses her voice; clears her throat and tries again. “I don’t want the life laid out for us. I don’t want— do you?” She leans back to look at Lexa, clutching her arms. “Is that what you want?”

Lexa just looks at her, brow knit in confusion. “Speak plainly, Clarke.”

“Would you ever want children? One day?”

Lexa goes still, a carefully impassive expression shuttering over her face; it’s one Clarke recognizes, a construed blankness she has seen many times before, most often during conversations with her father. “It’s expected of me.”

“But do you _want_ them?” Clarke insists.

Lexa looks away, squints off into the distance for a time as she considers the question before finally shrugging. “The prospect is the least abhorrent, out of everything that comes with marrying a man. But no. Not particularly. There are…” Her gaze skitters to Clarke’s before cutting away again. Her throat dips. “There are many things we are expected to have that I don’t particularly want. Nothing can be done about it. So what is the point in discussing it?”

“What if we left together?” It’s late, and silent save for the insects chirping in the distance, the quiet creaks of the house in the wind. Such a suggestion sounds particularly bold in the stillness. When Lexa doesn’t respond, just continues staring at the floor, Clarke shakes her slightly. “Lexa. What if— what if we just _left_?”

“You need more than this, Clarke,” says Lexa quietly. Beseechingly. She squeezes Clarke’s hand. “More than _me.”_

“That’s a lie,” Clarke says at once, resolutely ignoring the pang of guilt that lingers somewhere below, down the stairs, where her parents and all their expectations lie sleeping. 

“Clarke…” 

Lexa has barely spoken, voiced only her name, but Clarke can already foresee she won’t like what she’s about to say. She looks at Lexa, at the sorrow lining her face and deep in her glossy eyes; hears the resignation in her voice; feels the weak squeeze of her hand, and Clarke knows. She knows she won’t like this.

“You have a bright future ahead of you,” Lexa whispers, head hanging as she speaks. “You have...you have all these possibilities stretched out before you. Things that— things that I cannot give you. A marriage, a family, children, respect—”

“I would think I should decide whether or not I have need of such things,” Clarke begins, voice ominously calm, fighting to contain her frustration. It becomes more difficult when Lexa shakes her head and draws her hand back; Clarke’s feels cold without her. 

“My father told me today that it was selfish of me, to skirt the rules in favor of frolicking around with you.”

“Your father is a brute,” Clarke snaps. “Enjoying yourself is not a crime, Lexa!” 

“He said it was selfish of me to hinder you, Clarke. As well as myself, but I don’t care about that.” When Clarke just looks at her, aghast, Lexa takes a breath and says, “Your family is lower than mine, and therefore have more of a need. A respectable marriage will mean more for you. Yet I am...I am distracting you from your duties and growth, and that’s selfish of me.”

Clarke can hear Titus’s echo in every word that leaves Lexa’s lips, and she hates it— hates him. 

“No,” she growls. Lexa blinks. “No, Lexa. That’s absolute nonsense.”

“Is it? You’re wasting your time with me.”

“I’m _not_ wasting my time!”

“And what of your own people?” Lexa challenges, but Clarke has only the time to open her mouth for a furious retort when Lexa continues, “Your father, for instance. Are you truly telling me you would leave him?”

“I…that’s not fair. I love my father, I do, but I—”

“That you would leave it all behind, to...to waste your life with me?” Lexa swallows thickly and shakes her head, averting her glistening eyes from Clarke.

“I—”

“You deserve more than that, Clarke.”

“I _love_ you!” Clarke takes a breath, her heart wobbling precariously in her chest as relief floods her at admitting the words aloud. Her eyes well again, tears spilling over. “I love you. I’m— I’m sorry. I had to tell you.”

“Why are you apologizing, you silly girl?” Lexa rubbed soothing circles over Clarke’s back. “You’ve told me that a thousand times over the years.”

“No, no, I meant— I am _in love_ with you, Lexa.” At that Lexa stills, mouth falling slightly agape, eyes glazing over, and Clarke pushes on, persistent that Lexa hears it all, leaning back to look her deep in the eyes. “I have been for as long as I can remember. I love everything— _everything_ about you. I love the sound of your laugh and your dry jokes and your endless patience with me. I love how thoughtful you are, how you always continue to read to me even when you think me asleep, how you stubbornly insist I have the last bit of fruit and you never fail to save me a slice of pound cake from Gustus’ stall, no matter how early you went to the markets to get it. I love how lovely you smell and— and the taste of your mouth, of your skin, it’s...you’re addictive and I know I will never have another day’s rest for all of my life without craving you with everything I have. If I could...I would like to grow old with you.” She presses her hand to Lexa’s neck, fingers loosely curling around the back to play with the fine hairs there. She can feel the insistent whirl of Lexa’s heart along the side of her thumb. “I know I have nothing to offer you in terms of class. But if I did...I would give you any and everything.” She thinks of the books they’ve read together, of the grandest of gestures within them. “If I were queen of a faraway kingdom, I would surrender it to you in an instant.”

Her heart is upon the end of its rope as she awaits Lexa’s response. For a long time, Lexa only gazes at her, mingled awe and fear in wide eyes that are a pale green with unshed tears. Clarke eventually can’t bear it anymore, her lungs unwilling to expand for even the smallest of breaths, and dares say, “I don’t expect you to share my feelings. I know—like you said. I know there are certain expectations, and I cannot meet them.”

“Clarke.”

Clarke falls silent at once, holding her breath as she meets Lexa’s gaze.

“I am in love with you,” Lexa whispers, and Clarke stills, eyes widening, the words bouncing around in the confines of her chest, rebounding off her swelling heart. “I love all of you, every part. I love how you can’t last even a quarter of an hour into my reading before you fall asleep, and how you always curl up next to me but shift towards the sunlight like a flower in bloom. I love your brilliant mind, how creative it is— the questions you pose about the books, about the world. I love your art, how each sketch is more wonderful than the last. I love your smile, so full of mischief, I know trouble will always follow whatever hare-brained scheme you have cooked up for us.” Clarke gives a watery chuckle, and Lexa smiles softly in response, a glistening tear rolling over her cheek; Clarke reaches out to cup her face, swiping it away with her thumb. Lexa brushes her hand through Clarke’s hair again as she continues, “I love that you are the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. I love that you make the world seem... _more_. That you provide an abundance to all good things, that your very presence lends the world more colour, more life. I just love you, my darling. More than anything.”

They both lean in at the same time. This time the kiss tastes salty, like heartache and hope bound together in the sweetest bouquet. Clarke lets Lexa push her back into the mattress, sinks into the kiss as softly as her head sinks into the pillow. Lexa’s hair tumbles down, a sweet smelling curtain around them that blocks out the rest of the world. Clarke kisses her, and kisses her, leaning forward and breathing her in until she’s certain she has to be imprinted on her very lungs. 

Despite the way her heart thrums and her breathing grows shallow, the kiss is kept slow and measured, and soon enough Clarke’s eyelids grow as heavy as her body. The fatigue brought on by the intensity of the day has settled in her bones, and Clarke relaxes until her shoulders are sagging and Lexa is chuckling, kisses growing softer as she eases Clarke back into bed. She slips in beside her, draping the blankets around them, and gathers Clarke up in her arms. Clarke tucks her head below Lexa’s neck, kisses her skin.

“Don’t get caught here,” she says sleepily. “You’ve been in enough trouble because of me. I put an overcoat for your father beneath your pillow, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Lexa whispers, dropping a kiss to the top of Clarke’s head. She runs her hand through her hair again. “I’ll leave soon. Sleep, love.”

“I love you,” Clarke breathes. 

She falls asleep to Lexa’s gentle assurance. 

* * *

  
  


“Clarke.”

She wakes to Lexa whispering her name, and a gentle tapping upon her shoulder. 

“Hmm?”

“I should sneak back home now.”

Clarke pouts, half asleep as she blindly grasps Lexa’s arm and pulls her back into bed. Lexa collapses with an amused, exasperated huff, leaning into Clarke’s side. 

“Clarke, darling, you know I cannot stay here.”

Clarke warms at the pet name, humming as a blush tints her cheek. “Stay,” she mumbles into her pillow. “Go in the morning.”

“It is morning.”

Clarke’s eyes fly open. She pushes herself up onto her elbow, peering towards the dark window with a frown, and then looks down to see Lexa’s soft smile in the darkness, lit only by the stars and brightening navy sky.

“Well, not quite,” amends Lexa, smiling slightly. “But it soon will be, so I should go back.”

Disappointment aches within Clarke; she slides back down onto her side, facing Lexa, and allows her lower lip to jut out in another pout. “I like you here in my bed.”

It takes a second for the words to sink in. She notices the way Lexa stiffens first, lips parting at the phrase, and then Clarke’s own eyes widen. She swallows at her tight throat, and doesn’t bother to take them back or rush past it; she lets the tension sink over them, enveloping them, remembering how they spent their afternoon pressed against the tree yesterday. 

“I like it here too,” Lexa says, her voice low. She licks her lips. “But I should...I should go.”

“Yes,” Clarke breathes out, struggling to keep her voice steady. “You probably should…” But Lexa doesn’t move, and Clarke certainly doesn’t insist. She bites her lip to curb her growing smile, and Lexa notices.

“I see your smile. That’s not fair.”

“You are so beautiful it’s not fair,” Clarke says honestly. It’s the truest thing that has ever been said. She looks at Lexa, soft and heavy with sleep, her hair tumbled over her shoulder. Lexa is breathtaking.

Lexa blushes at the compliment, though her gaze is as heavy as ever as it lingers over Clarke. “I would say the same of you.”

“Then do so.”

Lexa blinks, taken aback, before a grin spreads at the challenge in Clarke’s voice. Clarke’s heart jumps into her throat as Lexa slowly leans in close, allows her lips to brush Clarke’s ear as she whispers, “You are so beautiful it hurts to look at you.”

Despite the blush on her cheeks, Clarke flops over in bed, blows loose blonde tendrils out of her face with a puff before narrowing her eyes at Lexa, ignoring her adoring grin. “It hurts to look at me? How could I be so beautiful it hurts to look at me? What a dreadful compliment.”

She’s teasing, of course, but it doesn’t help matters when she watches the way Lexa laughs softly in this growing morning light, and her heart stutters; she understands exactly what Lexa means.

“I mean sometimes looking at you is as if I’m looking at the sun. You are bright and beautiful and otherworldly, and I fear I’ll burn in the wake of your presence.”

“Oh,” Clarke says, struck rather lame by Lexa’s sweet words. 

Her heart rate quickens along with her breathing when Lexa’s expression shifts, endeared amusement giving way to an intensity that has Clarke biting her lip in anticipation. Lexa slowly leans down to hover over her, propped up on an elbow as her free hand trails up to cup Clarke’s jaw, her thumb drifting across her skin.

“May I kiss you?”

Clarke smiles slightly, though her eyes are fixated upon Lexa’s lips. “You know you needn’t ask that.”

“Perhaps sometimes I simply like to hear you telling me yes.”

“I would imagine you’d be used to hearing it by now,” Clarke’s voice drops an octave as Lexa draws near, her own gaze focused below Clarke’s as well. 

“I could never hear it enough, so I suppose I’ll have to work on drawing it out of you now.”

Clarke barely has a second to lose her breath, heart skipping and stomach lurching low, her hands automatically fisting in her bedsheets at the bold promise, when Lexa kisses her.

It’s as soft and gentle as every kiss thus far. Lexa kisses her with all the tender intensity of one trying to dismantle her so thoroughly and entirely that little would remain of her afterwards, or perhaps a more concentrated version of herself, bare and broken down to her base compulsions which involve nothing but continuing this, kissing Lexa until the end of her days. 

She unclenches the sheets to lift her hands and bury them in Lexa’s wild sleep-tousled mane. Her stomach flutters at the quiet moan Lexa gives in response and she tugs, lightly, eager to hear it again. Lexa tilts her head, lips parting, and Clarke wastes no time in accepting entrance, sweeping her tongue into Lexa’s mouth. She finds she tastes just as delicious in the early hours of dawn.

Her breath hitches, heat burning through her body, when Lexa shifts her weight to rest more atop her, every inch of their fronts lining up—until Lexa seems to realize what she has done and she tenses, lifting herself and then pausing, uncertain, when Clarke clutches at her waist to hold her in place.

“Is—is this okay?”

“Yes,” Clarke nods, urgent, head tipping up to seek Lexa’s lips. She’s not above begging here, if it allows her to feel Lexa’s weight pressing into her again. “ _Yes_.”

It sinks into her a moment later, at the sharp curve of Lexa’s lips against hers—a smirk. Clarke can’t prevent the rise of her own lips, biting at Lexa’s when it becomes difficult to kiss through their smiles. Lexa takes a sharp intake of breath at the sensation of Clarke’s teeth sinking into her bottom lip, followed by the smooth glide of her tongue, and seems to bear down her weight even more so. Clarke’s legs fall open without conscious effort so Lexa may fit between the warmth of her full thighs, and they both gasp and shudder at the heat they discover there.

The kiss shifts into one that is decidedly not so soft and gentle. Lexa pins her against the bed with her tongue, and Clarke clutches at the fabric of her dressing gown, her short nails scraping through into the warm skin at the small of Lexa’s back. Clarke is overwhelmed by the strength of her desire, manifesting in the unbidden and unconscious movements of her body—the way her hips press upward, the way her back arches, breasts pushing against Lexa’s. She _wants_ , so much so that she feels very nearly mad with it, and all she knows is that she is desperate— _desperate—_ for Lexa’s touch, any and everywhere, places Clarke has scarcely dared explore herself. 

But before Clarke can ascertain just how exactly to ask Lexa for what she doesn’t know how to voice, they are interrupted. They both go rigid, freezing when they hear a knock on the door— and not on Clarke’s. Lexa’s head shoots up in alarm.

“My father!” Lexa whispers urgently, eyes blown wide with alarm. “I have to go.” She smacks a kiss to Clarke’s mouth before leaping off the bed and scrambling up out of the window. Clarke hurries after her, watches Lexa dive through her own and splay out across her bed just in time for the door to swing open, Titus standing at the threshold. Clarke ducks down below the window pane so abruptly she winces as her tailbone smarts on the floor.

She strains her ears to listen as Titus quietly instructs Lexa on how she’ll be spending her days swamped in her duties. He doesn’t so much as offer a gruff thanks when Lexa gifts him the overcoat she lies and claims to have sewn for him overnight. He tells Lexa to get dressed and ready for the day before footsteps sound as he walks off; Clarke pokes her head up again, peering over in time to watch Lexa close the door behind him and turn to face Clarke’s window with a visibly relieved exhale of breath.

She looks at Clarke meaningfully, as if to say, _that was close._

Clarke raises her brows and nods in agreement. Lexa’s lips quirk and she rolls her eyes when Clarke breaks into a grin. Clarke tilts her head, curious, when Lexa turns contemplative, biting her bottom lip.

“Meet me behind the house at midday,” Lexa’s whisper carries across from her.

Clarke nods at once, smiling. Lexa smiles back before she indicates she’s going to dress to go about her day now, and even when she turns her back to stroll over to her dressers, Clarke finds herself watching her reflection in the mirror propped above Lexa’s dresser, a little dazed. Nimble fingers work the ties in the front of her dressing gown, and Clarke swallows thickly, distracted by the warm stirring in the pit of her stomach, her mouth falling dry as she watches the slow reveal of skin as Lexa pulls apart the strings—

And then she nearly swallows her own tongue with mortification, startled when she suddenly catches herself staring at the same time that Lexa does; their eyes meet in the mirror. Clarke blanches, weakly holding a hand up in apology, and Lexa merely smirks at her, though even from this distance Clarke can see the tips of her ears glowing pink. Lexa wags a taunting finger to indicate for Clarke to turn, and Clarke gets to her feet and spares her a weak smile before abruptly spinning around.

She takes a moment to steady her breathing before she walks over to her own drawers, pulling out her clothes for the day. She resists the temptation to glance out the window as she positions herself standing near the foot of her bed...close enough to be seen, if Lexa were to strain for a glimpse. She undresses herself with shaky hands, turning to where only her bare back faces the window, and then pulls on her fresh clothes. By the time she finally turns around, her confidence swells and she has to fight back a grin when she sees Lexa standing rigidly some distance from the windows, face flushed and hands fisted at her sides, facing the side of the room as though staring at something very interesting on the wall. After hardly a minute green eyes dart Clarke’s way, and Lexa blushes harder at Clarke’s smirk; she rolls her eyes again and Clarke’s smirk widens. 

They give a shy wave in farewell and make their way to their respective doors, though they catch the other sneaking a backwards glance just before they reach them. They exchange wry grins and then head out to begin the day.

* * *

The morning drags by at a slow crawl. 

Early on Clarke accompanies her mother to the markets down the road in the centre of town, making an early day of it before her mother joins Jackson in the wards. Abby wanders to peruse the butchered meats while Clarke lingers at her usual stall, ordering slices of pound cake. This particular stall is manned by Gustus Bane. He’s a fearsome-looking man, towering at least a foot over most men, with broad shoulders and a wild beard that covers most of his face; unbeknownst to most, however, he has a heart of gold that has on more than one occasion had Clarke referring to him as a teddy bear. He used to be in the military until an injury sent him home, and he developed a knack for baking after spending so many years doing it with his wife before she passed. Now he dreams of owning his own bakery one day, though he’s found it difficult to earn enough money with the tax for his stall and the fact that he’s a low-born; he’s never even been able to manage securing an invitation to sell his wares at the renowned Polis Fair, despite his efforts. Still, he enjoys what he does, and he’s developed somewhat of a friendship with the two of them. Over the years he’s become quite partial to Lexa, who he claims bears a startling resemblance to his daughter, who passed away five winters ago, and through Lexa, Clarke.

“How is your partner in crime?” Gustus asks, and Clarke has to look away as heat creeps up the back of her neck; she bites her lip to curb her smile. 

“Lexa’s doing well,” she tells him, pleased that her tone is reasonably calm. 

Gustus arches one bushy brow. “Where is she?”

“Ah, home,” Clarke hesitates. “Doing her chores.” 

Gustus chuckles knowingly. “She is in trouble, is what you mean.”

Clarke smiles wryly. “A bit.”

“And let me guess. Your fault.”

“I resent that.”

“Oh, Clarke,” speaks her mother suddenly; Clarke jumps, not having heard her approach even despite the armful of food in her mother’s arms. “Please don’t tell me I’ve a lecture from Titus Woods waiting for me at home.”

“Certainly not,” Clarke says, though she’s unnerved and hoping it isn’t a lie.

She thanks Gustus for the cakes and follows her mother home, preparing the food before her mother leaves to meet Jackson, and Clarke remains behind to tend to her father. 

The two of them perch in the kitchen with pound cake, freshly baked bread and churned butter spread out on the table before them, and Clarke’s voice filling the air as she reads aloud the battered old copy of Oliver Twist her father loves so much. Some days he seems so alert and aware, able to carry on a full conversation with reasoning. Other times it is as if he’s not really there, blue eyes distant and unfocused, like he’s just...floating.

Fortunately, today is a good day for him. He smiles warmly as Clarke finishes a chapter.

“Have I ever told you you’re my favourite daughter?” he asks, voice hoarse from disuse.

Clarke smiles, flicking to the next page. “Once or twice. I’m afraid it doesn’t ring quite the same way when I consider the fact that I am your only daughter.”

“Technicalities.” He coughs, but his smile never fades. “Lexa’s here often enough I suppose I could count her as a second. In which case, my earlier statement has to be untrue, then. Lexa is my favourite.”

Clarke feigns offense, delighting in her father’s raspy chuckle. 

“Whereabouts is the girl these days? I haven’t seen her in some time. You could invite her over for a furtive snack, this bread is well done.”

Clarke’s mood dampens slightly at the reminder. “She’s stuck home today.”

“In trouble again?” her father guesses. When Clarke nods, he sighs. “She’ll be a handful for her husband one day. Same as you, I presume.”

Clarke huffs, a crease forming between her brow as she looks down from her book to frown at the floor. “Perhaps I won’t have a husband,” she mutters. 

Her father snorts, as though it’s a ridiculous notion. “Nonsense. You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman, Clarke. I know right now your duties keep you here with me, but one day you’ll be starting your own family, and whatever man is lucky enough to wed you will be blessed beyond measure to have you.”

“What if I don’t want to wed anyone,” Clarke says stubbornly. It’s bold, the words she speaks. She’d never dare voice them to her mother, but she’s always had a softer relationship with her father. “What if I...what if I just refuse to take a husband.”

Jake looks at her with such sad understanding Clarke fears these statements aren’t nearly as bold as she imagines. She wonders if her mother had the same thoughts years ago, before marrying her father. 

“That is not the way of this life,” Jake says gently. “You know that.”

“But marriage is— what if I don’t want a contract to base my life in. What about the other aspects of life? What if I— what if I want to spend mine with someone I love, rather than someone chosen for me simply for matters of repute?”

Jake is quiet for a long moment, eyes closed. The silence stretches on for so long Clarke fears he’s succumbed to one of his sudden sleeps, but then his eyes crack open again.

“All I want is happiness for you. But...we all know life is not easy. I know it feels as if it would be simpler, to spend it only ever concerned with seeking happiness...but joy is as fleeting as any emotion, and it can be dangerous— reckless— only ever pursuing your passions with no regard for anything else. Just take a gander at myself.” He smiles sadly, vaguely waving a hand to gesture at the state of himself. “I want you to be happy, Clarke, but I want you to bear in mind that a full life is built on a foundation of much more than that. That’s why marriages work— because they are contracts, commitments to put in effort and always try to make things work; love on its own is never enough. When you find yourself a husband one day...I want you to remember that. Just try, and perhaps the rest of what you want— that joy and happiness— will follow. I only pray I live long enough to see it.

A lump forms in Clarke’s throat, even as her stomach lurches unpleasantly at her father’s words. “Father...don’t say such things.” She puts a bracing hand on his thin wrist. “You have many years of life left in you.”

Jake’s smile is small and brittle as he closes his eyes and tips his head back, curling into himself in his Bath wheelchair; he grows tired easily and is prone to slip into sleep, but Clarke feels as though this time he’s embracing it to avoid the conversation. 

“I hope so,” he says with a finality in his tone that lets Clarke know to leave it well enough alone.

She closes the book, her heart heavy, and takes a breath. It doesn’t matter, she decides. It doesn’t matter what anyone says, nor does their judgement mean anything. Clarke thinks of Lexa, of her soft smile and the way her green eyes crinkle with her laughter, and is helplessly swept up in the wave of longing that overtakes her. 

Nothing could be wrong about something that feels so right.

* * *

As they agreed, midday finds Clarke slinking along the outside of the Woods’ estate, hand drifting along the chipped wood as she paces. It’s a lovely day out, despite the storm clouds gathering in the east; they’ve yet to reach them so right now the sun is shining bright and warm, a few fluffy white clouds floating above. The town is quiet and peaceful. Clarke is happy to wait the several minutes it takes for Lexa to finally join her; Clarke perks up, leaning off the wall when she hears approaching footstops and then spies her rounding the corner.

“Hello,” Clarke says, her smile broad on her face.

“Hello yourself,” Lexa greets her, biting her lip as she comes to stand just before Clarke, swaying forward and then back like she wants nothing more than to kiss her but she can’t— not here, out in the open. “I’m afraid I can’t stay very long...Father’s in the kitchen, readying the shoes he wants me to repair. I’ve only snuck out for a moment.”

“I’ll take a quick moment with you over nothing at all. Here. Your slice of cake.” Clarke pulls it from her pocket, unwraps the handkerchief around it and hands it to her, hand cupped to catch the crumbles.

“You’re the best,” Lexa says gratefully, eating it with her fingers. Clarke blushes when she offers her a bite, and harder still when Lexa’s fingertips brush her lips as she feeds it to her.

They speak of their day, chatting idly, but it doesn’t last long. Not with the tension hovering between them, not with the way Lexa’s eyes keep dropping to Clarke’s lips, not with the way Clarke has discreetly inched closer until they stand so near their breasts brush with each breath, and all it takes is the slightest incline of her head, and neither of them can resist anymore. They are both leaning against the side of the house when Lexa empties the final bit of space between them and kisses Clarke so thoroughly she forgets what it was to ever exist before this.

It’s a thrilling feeling, to be kissing Lexa out in the open like this. They shouldn’t be doing it, but it’s difficult to imagine resisting such a thing. The sun bathes them in a golden glow of warmth that’s nowhere near as potent as the heat rushing through Clarke’s veins as she pushes Lexa against the wall, bracing herself with one hand on the chipped wood and the other cupping the back of Lexa’s neck, holding her close as she kisses her deeply. 

Lexa’s taste is a familiar one now, something Clarke craves more than air itself. She loses herself in this, in the gentle presses of Lexa’s tongue and the soft give of her lips beneath her own. Leans forward until every inch of their fronts are pressed together with Clarke arching forward even more on instinct, wanton and hungry, with no idea what she’s doing except just trying to get as close as she possibly can. Their breasts smash together and Lexa gives a muffled whimper against her lips; the noise has Clarke shuddering with overwhelming want, kissing Lexa even harder. Lexa’s hands slip into her hair and pull. It has Clarke dropping her head to bury a moan in her neck. She can feel Lexa’s smile against her temple as she tugs again, seeking a repeat, and Clarke can only give it to her before crashing their mouths together again. Lexa pulls at her, spins them and pushes her back into the wall with a thud, and swallows the moan that rumbles up her throat.

It feels incredible to kiss Lexa at all, let alone in public. The danger adds excitement, knowing anyone could see them at any time— and perhaps if her head wasn’t spinning at the sensation of Lexa’s tongue in her mouth, she’d remember how serious the risks were, but as it is, all Clarke can feel is invincible, on top of the world, with this beautiful girl pressed against her.

That is, until reality rears its ugly head in the form of Titus walking around the corner. 

Panic has the moment flashing by so quickly Clarke could hardly keep up. One moment she’s wrapped up in Lexa, flying with her elation; the next the two of them are ripping apart, Lexa lurching back, Titus standing twenty feet away looking utterly aghast demanding to know what the meaning of this is. 

And Clarke reacts on instinct. 

She stumbles forward. “We were practicing for our future husbands, my lord!”

Titus halts in his ranting, brow lined with the deep set wrinkles from his frequent scowls. He further furrows in confusion, and Clarke surges on, desperate.

“That is—that is a thing women do, a little known secret. How else are we to prepare to please the masters of our house?”

Titus only stares, puzzled eyes darting between the two of them before finally settling on Lexa. “Is this true?” he asks of her, an odd note in his voice— Clarke realises a beat later that it’s something akin to relief. He’s pleased to hear of this, which is strange, because Titus is never pleased. “You were preparing for your future?”

Lexa sucks in a shaky breath, eyes flitting from Clarke to Titus. Clarke holds her breath, willing her to go along with it. “Yes,” she finally says.

Relieved, Clarke looks back at Titus. He just stands there wearing a thoughtful frown, long enough Clarke grows even more unnerved; he is so unlike Lexa’s expressiveness, it’s often difficult to tell what’s lurking behind his impassive expressions. 

Eventually, he sighs. 

“Miss Griffin, I recommend you retire home at once. I’ll be speaking to your parents about this... _abhorrent_ behavior. Alexandria...in the house with me to discuss your punishment.”

Clarke swallows thickly as foreboding washes over her. She and Lexa remain frozen for another moment before Titus’s blank expression twitches, replaced by irritation, and he claps his hand to signal to them to move. They jolt to attention and begin walking along the house towards where he stands. 

This isn’t ideal at all. Clarke’s heart pounds, filled with dread at the thought of Titus discussing this with her parents, and even more so at the fact that Lexa is in trouble yet again. She should have known better, they shouldn’t have done such things in the open, fearless and reckless— her father’s earlier warnings pop into her head, but she shakes them off. Lexa loves her, she reminds herself. And she loves Lexa. Everything would be alright. 

“Meet me at our tree after sermon this evening,” Clarke mutters beneath her breath. “Only if you may sneak away without fear of being caught.”

She takes the light brush of Lexa’s fingers across her hand, warm as they slide over her palm, as an answer, and it’s the only answer Clarke will ever need. 

* * *

Clarke arrives at the meadow early. Sermon seemed to have lasted forever, though that may be due to the heated looks she and Lexa were exchanging from across the pews. Titus had noticed, ushering Lexa further down the row out of Clarke’s sight. It was frustrating, but Clarke didn’t care. She could still taste Lexa’s lips, could still feel the wild beat of her heart against her own. Anything else was irrelevant. 

After preparing dinner for her parents, she slipped out of her window and away through the forest, traipsing across the orchard and finally plopping herself down at the foot of their lone tree. Time stretched on as she waited, twirling a single golden leaf between her thumb and forefinger, head filled with imaginings of once Lexa arrived; of the way she would kiss her; of the manner in which she could try to convince her to run off with her. 

Even then it feels like foolishness— Lexa was right, after all, Clarke does have her father to tend to. _That’s quite alright,_ Clarke tells herself. Once he gets better, or at least self-sufficient enough to care for himself, she and Lexa could leave then. She ignores the small voice in her head that warns her— while Clarke may be able to put off duties of finding a husband in favor of caring for her father, Lexa suffered no such illusions. In fact, the only reason her father had yet to marry her off was due to his insistence that she was not ready yet, that her childish behavior would make her a lacking wife— while Clarke could possibly get away with years of this, Lexa’s life was on a different timeline, dictated only by the whims of her stern father. 

_It doesn’t matter,_ Clarke thinks firmly. None of it does. All that matters is that she loves Lexa, and Lexa loves her. And love _is_ enough.

Yet the more time passes without Lexa’s arrival, the more unnerved Clarke grows. 

The sky has darkened, fireflies twinkling across the edges of the meadow like fallen stars. The distant storms have finally reached them; thunder rumbles above, and light flashes in the dark clouds rolling across the sky. Anxiety twists in Clarke’s belly as she paces before the tree. Something is not right. Lexa has never left her waiting— not once, ever, not even when she was in trouble and locked in her bedroom. She most certainly wouldn’t do it now. Something must have happened. Perhaps Titus resorted to the same physical discipline he was oft to do when Lexa was a child, when he favoured switches and belt whips to hours of chores. Perhaps Lexa was hurt, or locked away in her room.

Whatever it was, thought Clarke as she stormed out of the meadow, across the orchard and through the forest, she would find out. If Lexa was hurt, she swore to herself she would find a way to leave with her tonight, their families and their reputations be damned. 

The closer she gets to town, the more the horrid sense of foreboding intensifies. When she draws near enough to catch a distant scream, followed by shouting and more screams, the terror that strikes Clarke is so powerful it feels as though her very blood turns to ice in her veins, and she lunges forward out of the outskirts of the woods, caring not for the rain soaking her to the bone, the ripping of her dress on the thornbushes, or how very unladylike she looks sprinting past a few dawdlers on the road. She cuts through the town and finally reaches their houses, but she finds Lexa’s windows dark—empty. Then she hears the commotion, the screams and shouts happening on the edge of town. She recognizes Lexa’s voice, though she’s never heard it like that before, bellowing and screeching, and that alone fills her with more fear than she’s ever known. Clarke throws herself in that direction, feet pounding on the grass and pavement, sloshing through the puddles already forming. Her thrashing heart drops, stills, when she bursts through the bushes and into the clearing situated on the outskirts just before the main road leading out of town.

Half a dozen people stand there, including a few visibly disturbed onlookers, such as her mother. Abby turns when she hears Clarke shout Lexa’s name, rushes towards her speaking, but Clarke hears and sees nothing; she can only focus on the way Lexa is furiously attempting to wrench her arms free from those nearest her, and how Titus stands between Lexa and the crowd of onlookers. Lexa herself is farther away— her arms gripped by two hulking men as she’s dragged away, men Clarke only vaguely recognize as the occasional workers Titus would hire to tend to his estate. Wide green eyes wild with tears and terror find Clarke when she cries out her name, and Lexa begins fighting even harder to throw off the men’s grip, but they merely pick her up into the air. 

“Stop— stop it! Let go of her! Lexa!” Clarke’s way forward is blocked when a man throws his arm before her, barring her from closing the distance between her and Lexa; she feels the soft but firm pressure of her mother’s arms circling around her a moment later, and Clarke bucks with panic. “Lexa! What’s the meaning of this, what’s happening? Where are you taking her?”

“She’s off to finishing school under the finest tutelage of Madame Nia Winters,” Titus says, his voice as emotionless as his expression as he stares down his long nose at Clarke. “After that she’ll be married and starting a family of her own.”

So potent is the wave of horror that rises within Clarke that she abruptly feels as though she could retch. Tears flood her eyes to the point where she can barely see anything before her save for Lexa, struggling to reach her, and there’s a ringing in Clarke’s ears so deafening she can barely hear Lexa’s protests. “No. No, you can’t!”

“Stop, Clarke, right now,” Abby murmurs in her ear, struggling to hold her down. “I’m sorry. Nothing can be done.”

“You can’t do this!”

“I think you’ll find that I can,” Titus says coldly. “You’ve been a terrible influence on my daughter for far too long, Miss Griffin. I suggest you take advantage of this opportunity and begin afresh, practicing the subordination necessary to become a respectable lady. Good day. I daresay I won’t be seeing you as often now.”

Clarke shouts for Lexa again, sobs tearing at her throat at the screams she hears in response; Lexa is putting up quite the fight, writhing in the arms of the three men dragging her back towards the carriage that awaits. She screams Clarke’s name so desperately it sounds as though it shreds through her very throat.

“Please—” Clarke sobs, sagging against the muscled arms of the men holding her back and the soft embrace of her mother as her legs give out beneath her. She can’t breathe. She can’t do anything, she is utterly helpless. “ _Please_ , don’t _do_ this—”

Clarke doesn’t even know who she’s begging, because Titus is no longer there. He is already strolling back towards town, bald head glinting with the lightning flashing above. He doesn’t even spare a glance back as his daughter is carted away. But Clarke— Clarke can’t look away, and she knows this will be forever burned into her eyes, knows it will haunt her, will never leave her splintered heart. The rain beats down on them, and Lexa is soaked through, the bottom of her dress stained with mud; she’s missing a shoe, one bare foot swinging wildly through the air as she struggles. Her hair is still down but it’s wet and tangled. Her tears have mixed with the rain on her anguished face.

Clarke has no choice but to watch them carry Lexa off kicking and screaming, watch until they have long disappeared down the road and Clarke is left alone, the men holding her back finally releasing her to let her fall to her knees in the mud along with her mother, still holding her tightly, before the men walk away as if this meant nothing. Clarke remains there, tears streaming down her face, numb with shock as she chokes on her sobs. Her mother is speaking to her, voice shaky and consoling, but Clarke couldn’t discern what she was saying even if she wanted to. She watches them dump Lexa into the carriage waiting on the road; watches Lexa’s arm stick out from the small window, hears her cries. Watches them carry her love away, and still Clarke remains there, cold, alone, with the ghost of Lexa’s lips on hers, the phantom scent of her hair on the wind. 

They carry her love away just as, unbeknownst to either of them, the very last golden leaf falls from their tree and sinks to the ground.


	2. but limited, always doomed to expire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Darling, I wish I could change the world for you,” Clarke whispers, voice breaking. She cups Lexa’s face in her hands again, wishing more than anything she could wipe her sorrow away. She steers Lexa down so she can press a kiss to her forehead, and when she straightens the tilt of Lexa’s head, she has only a moment to see the faint pink dusting over her cheeks before she closes her eyes, brings their forehead to rest together. She restlessly moves hardly a second later, pressing another kiss to Lexa’s cheek, at the corner of her mouth. She can feel Lexa’s intake of breath as much as she can hear it; their mouths are so close together, she can very nearly taste her shuddery exhale.
> 
> When she opens her eyes, her stomach bottoms out again, because those green eyes are hazy, dark, and all Clarke wants to do is kiss her absolutely senseless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday. I doubt all of you have read my Clexa supervillain au (it's quite a different tone from this fic), so I want to explain how I do warnings.
> 
> Sometimes I don't like writing them at the top in the tags, because I want the story to unfold for you without spoilers. At the same time I feel warnings are very important and necessary for those who have triggers. Therefore, I post my warnings in the end notes. IF you are someone who is not bothered and would like to read this fic without spoilery tags/warnings, then please read on. IF you would like some warnings, please go click to the end notes for those warnings.

_My dearest Lexa,_

_Today marks one full year since I watched them carry you away from me._

_For the past months, I have lived as though trapped in space. An endless black void where the only light reaches out from afar, yet it is all I can do to observe it. Day after day, I watch the stars, how they burn, and beg them to consume me._

_I feel as if I cannot breathe without you here._

_It makes me wonder how I ever did it without you, in those first years of life before your presence blessed mine. Do you know mother recalls nothing before the time her father gifted her with a new dress at six summers old? She claims that’s the earliest one may draw upon their recollections, but as she is about most things lately, she is wrong. We were hardly four summers when we met, but I remember it with startling clarity. I remember being outside my house perched atop my father’s shoulders while your carriage drew near; I remember the way the sunlight glinted on your brutish father’s head as he climbed out first. And most of all, I remember you— small with wild hair very nearly bigger than your little body, hopping down from the carriage without anyone’s help and staring up at me with the brightest, most beautiful green eyes I had ever seen. Your father was chastising you for taking the pins out of your hair but you looked at me as though naught a word reached you. And even back then, as young as we were, I knew, as wholly as one knows the sun will rise in the morn, that we would be the closest of friends._

_I was more correct than I realized. We are far closer than I ever anticipated. Closer and yet never close enough— words cannot give justice to the intensity of my craving for you. I must be touching you at all times. I want my mouth on yours; I want my hands in yours, stroking your skin, buried in your hair. It is, what I am coming to learn, a most human trait— for all of it to never be enough. And yet still I want for you._

_I am so in love with you it is like I am crazed. A rabid, raving beast for your love. For your touch to crawl beneath my skin and make a home in the hollow of my throat where every whisper of your name beats against my flesh. Somewhere lost deep within the caverns of my rib cage floats your moonbeam sighs, echoed in the ages. Along the blue line of my wrist mark your thumbs, yellowed and glowing, and I can feel every inch of the rest pressed over my waist._

_I am incomprehensibly infatuated with everything about you. I want to make a home in the curls of your hair. I want to shower in the rain of your laughter, I want to melt together our entwined hands. I am yours and you are mine._

_None of this is poetry, Lexa. I am not one for words but you wring so many noises from my lips and this poor inarticulate thing is just another of them. I am devastated with your loss the same way our people strain beneath a harsh winter; the way our crops wither and die in the dry summer; the way the river cutting through town rages with rapids that could consume anyone who falls in its wake. I find myself with less certainty than I had as a child, for now I no longer recall if the sun truly rises in the morn. Everything feels dark and empty without you._

_All I am certain of is my love for you. I truly hope to marry you someday. I fear it will never be possible in our lifetime but perhaps. Someday. Perhaps I shall bury this within the fortnight when I lose my nerve to ask your father instructions to deliver it to you. Perhaps years, centuries from now, it will be unearthed by a people who are more wont to honesty, and tolerance. We may only hope they never understand our plight, for they live in softer times where they can cry their love freely to the world rather than swallow down the anguished screams, the torment of knowing what it is to love and be forbidden to love in the same wretched breath. Perhaps one day, everything will be different._

_To quote your favourite poet— someone will remember us, I say. Even in another lifetime_.

  
  


Clarke holds the letter as tenderly and desperately as though she clutches Lexa’s hand in her own. For a moment, when she closes her eyes, she can pretend that’s the truth. Can feel the ghost of Lexa’s presence surrounding her. The tender touch of her soft skin, the wisp of her scent on the air; the tingling of Clarke’s lips alone tell her all she needs to know. She is utterly attuned to her; irrevocably meant for her. She is hopelessly in love with someone she may well never see again.

Her eyes snap open. She watches the candlelight flicker for a moment, dancing shadows on the walls. She had rearranged her bedroom months ago; she could no longer bear facing the window, couldn’t take the small sprig of hope that she would once again see Lexa’s window lit from within. It had been so many months since she last laid eyes on her. Weeks of needling Titus has eventually led him to reveal she was in finishing school somewhere hopelessly far away, certainly nowhere near that Clarke could run to. And yet still the hope would not cease. 

In the morn, before anyone else wakes, Clarke makes the trek to their haven alone, as always since Lexa left. The woods remain the same, trees thick and towering, the path dark and winding; the orchard is still full of sweet fruit, and their tree itself still stands strong, once again in the process of shedding its leaves. 

Clarke buries her latest letter in the potato sack at the foot of it, and carefully piles the small golden leaves that had fallen over the mound of freshly packed earth. She’s long lost count of how many letters she’s buried here. She’s not quite certain why she’s been doing it. She tells herself it’s to keep them safe from being found, but her father is in no state to even make the climb upstairs to her bedroom, and her mother had no reason to snoop. Truthfully, doing this makes Clarke feel closer to Lexa, somehow. As though she could feel her love more clearly this way; as though this tree serves as some magical connection for them. 

Foolishness, perhaps, but Clarke still finds herself here day after day. Even when she hasn’t produced any letters, she still wanders here, sits back against the trunk and closes her eyes. Sometimes she swears she can hear the faint sound of Lexa’s voice on the gentle breeze, reading her latest novel aloud to her; the warmth of the sun tricks her into recalling the heat of Lexa’s body as she so often sunk into it. She takes lonely naps dreaming of the day Lexa returns to her. Everything would work out, she tells herself desperately, chest filling with all the naïveté of a youth lost to love. 

It’s not long after that her father’s health takes a turn.

It worsens to the point where Abby is forced to stay home most days, giving him constant care. She teaches Clarke more than ever before, and even doctor Jackson himself offers her guidance, making frequent visits to check on him. It helps, certainly, but so little of substance can be done. Clarke has no choice but to watch, helpless, as her father’s condition deteriorates. He grows thinner than ever, gaunt with his bones and the shadows of his pain. Yet still, through it all, he manages to find Clarke in his increasingly rare instances of consciousness. 

“Don’t yet lose faith in me,” he rasps, chest stuttering with his strained chuckle. His hands shake as he closes them over Clarke’s. “I still have some life in these bones. Don’t count me out yet.”

Clarke closes her eyes, though it does nothing to stem the flow of tears. They soak her face, cold, biting. 

“I’m going to overcome this,” he tells her seriously, and it’s when the smile fades from his face that Clarke can best see the muted pain roaring to life in his blue eyes. “You’ll see, sweetheart. I’ll win this fight, even if it only grants me borrowed time.”

Clarke almost wants to ask him why. He is in such pain, suffering constantly. A small part of her, frail and buried deep down beneath her panic and dread at the prospect of losing him, thinks that she can’t bear to watch this anymore, that perhaps it would be better, more peaceful for him, if…

But she can’t bear to think it.

Her father seems to recognize the torn emotions on her face, and weakly squeezes her hand again. 

“I plan to be here. I plan to take your mother out, treat her to flowers and fine food. I plan to watch you marry a good man, and gift the world with your children.” Jake pauses then, knowingly eying Clarke. “Your mother told me Mr Collins has been coming to see you.”

Clarke’s scoff shifts into a hiccup. It’s far from the first time her father has talked to her about this; it seems to come more often of late, perhaps due to him forgetting conversations. Evidently it didn’t stop him from remembering this specific conversation he apparently had with her mother. The knowledge brings with it a rush of annoyance. She hasn’t particularly been on the best of terms with her mother, not since the day Lexa left. Though she had comforted Clarke through her grief, it didn’t take long before her patience ran thin. She didn’t understand why Clarke was so devastated by the loss of her friend, and Clarke didn’t dare enlighten her. Now that the both of them were home and together more often, it presented Abby with more opportunities to encourage Clarke to look into potential suitors, and the fact that Clarke was resistant only served to frustrate her all the more.

“Your mother seems to think he would be a suitable match for you.”

Clarke looks up at him, blinking back the tears she has been crying by her ailing father’s side. She’s curious despite herself. “What do you think?”

Her father’s noncommittal hum is croaky in his throat. “I’m afraid I’ll never think anyone is good enough for my perfect daughter, so perhaps it’s a waste of time to ask me that.” He smiles softly when Clarke rolls her eyes, chuckling slightly. 

Clarke takes a shaky breath. Admits, “I don’t even know him.” She only knew him as the local carpenter’s son. The Collins family was around the same social class as her own, perhaps a bit higher up, and Finn was their only son. He was a nice enough boy, but Clarke only ever exchanged the most basic pleasantries when he stopped by. He started coming over to help design new contraptions for Clarke’s father to ease his living, such as the bath wheelchair he practically lived in, but even after his services were filled he would still find reasons to pop by for a visit, for what Clarke felt were rather awkward conversations about things as banal as the weather, that she only ever politely suffered through due to the good manners her mother imperiously reminded her to have. 

“Nor did your mother know me when I first asked for her hand,” her father tells her. “Oftentimes you marry because it’s a good match, and you grow to love one another.”

“Why should I have to grow to love him?” The words leave her before she can think the better of them, but she finds that when she starts, it’s difficult to stop. “Why would I want to marry a stranger? Share their home, their bed. Why would anyone want that? Compared to falling in love with someone you know— realizing you’ve already been in love for as long as you can remember. Why would you not want to be companions first, rather than invite someone you know nothing about to become your— your everything!”

Jake watches her closely, a faint line between his brows. “Why don’t you do that, then, Clarke? If you find a man you like, get to know him first. Become his companion. What’s stopping you?”

Clarke opens her mouth and then hesitates. They’re alone in the house right now; her father was having a rare good day, so her mother took advantage to run to the markets to stock their cupboards up. She could tell him about Lexa. She would already have were she not so certain of what he would say— how he may be disturbed at first, but he would hold her while she cried, offer soothing words of consolation. But eventually, he would reluctantly remind her that path is an impossible one. That Lexa and Titus are far closer to upper class than the Griffins would ever be, and that life expects them to find husbands and make families.

Or perhaps he would be horrified with her deviance, citing it a sin, and ask himself how a woman could ever love another in such a way.

She knows her father, and she doesn’t imagine he’d do the second part, but it’s still enough to give her pause. He’s already sick. Would such news shock him enough to make it any worse?

She defers to these fears— even knowing they are simply excuses to avoid talking about it. Perhaps later she’ll gather the courage to confide in him. For now, she swallows and nods and half listens as her father prattles on about his marriage with her mother and how it developed, everything he said indicating it could be how it would go for Clarke and the carpenter’s boy. Finn would be a suitable match for her, yes. But he’s not Lexa.

And all she wants is Lexa.

She thanks her father for his insight and he smiles, pleased to have helped. He slips into sleep not long after, and Clarke remains sitting at his side, crying quietly as she clutches his skeletal-like hand. 

* * *

He lasts five more months.

It’s agonizing, watching him die such a slow death. Watching it become such a struggle for him even to draw those shallow, rattling breaths into his lungs. She holds his hand when he finally passes. Her mother lay slumped over his chest, crying, and Jackson rubs her shoulder in wordless support. 

Clarke escapes down to their tree at some point the next day. She buries her latest letter to Lexa, reclines back against the tree trunk prepared to weep the day away, but finds that the tears won’t rise. She feels cold, numb. She wishes Lexa were here, but the craving has muted— everything has muted. It’s difficult to feel much of anything, least of all hope.

Her father never lost hope yet he conceded the war for his life. It’s a thought that strikes Clarke into a self-imposed silence that lasts for days.

The funeral is a small affair. Clarke never wants to wear black again. She and her mother hold one another, faces grim beneath their veils. It’s the closest Clarke has felt to her since losing Lexa. But like all things...it doesn’t last. 

It’s been half a year since her father’s death when her mother comes home with news of an engagement. Of _her_ engagement.

Clarke listens, stunned and horrified, as Abby recounts how Marcus Kane, another widower who often made trips into the wards, had fallen in love with her. He asked for her hand, and her mother agreed. And Clarke spiraled.

“You cannot marry him so soon!” she cried, red-faced and trembling with rage and anguish. She and her mother had been shouting at one another in the kitchen for nearly ten minutes now, since Abby walked in with a ring glinting on her finger. “Just because— just because he’s a higher class!”

“That’s _not_ why I’m to marry him,” Abby had hurled back, just as furious and perhaps somewhat taken aback by the ferocity of Clarke’s grief. “Marcus is a good man!”

They speak for nearly an hour, finally calming enough to sit at the table with dinner between them. Clarke runs a trembling hand through her hair and shakes her head, voice quiet as she asks, “How could you move on so quickly? It feels as though you’re betraying him.”

“This is the way the world works!” Abby snaps. “You know better, Clarke! Contracts. Contracts promising our labour, our bodies, our love. That’s all life is. It was this or become an old spinster, and I’ve not the means to live such a lonely life. And I’m fortunate in this regard— Marcus is a _good_ man, far better than most.” Abby’s voice and countenance softens as she looks at Clarke, the way she shakes. “The same way Mr Collins is a good man, and a good choice for you. You could do worse. And besides...your father did like him.”

Clarke resists the urge to childishly roll her eyes. “He tolerated him at best.”

Abby’s lips twitch. “For many fathers, that’s the best that can be hoped for.” She leans down to press a firm kiss to the top of Clarke’s head. “I know it’s difficult, but your father would have wanted this for me. He _did_ want this; we discussed such measures before he...before he passed, though I was displeased with it before. Your father was an unusual man, Clarke, you know this. Far softer and kinder than any man I’ve ever known. He knew how hard life was for women. All he would ask is for you to try and find joy wherever you can, darling.”

_All he would ask is for you to try._

Clarke stiffens, breath catching. She can remember the echoes of a similar conversation she had with him. He had told her that then, too. That she simply had to try.

Clarke swallowed thickly, nervous as she nods. “Okay.”

Abby draws back, brows raising in surprise. “Okay?”

Clarke nods. She grasps the hem of her sleeve and picks at a stray thread. “Okay. I will try.”

Abby is delighted, and Clarke tries to shake back the lingering remnants of betrayal she can still feel clinging to her bones. 

* * *

It’s to be a long engagement. 

Finn smiles kindly and assures her of that one sunny afternoon, when Clarke takes a deep breath and, ignoring her uncertainty, tells him she’s excited for their marriage and their life together. He kisses her cheek— the scruff of his shaven face scratches at Clarke’s skin, and it’s not necessarily better or worse, just different— and tells her that he understands she’s still mourning her father, and there is no rush towards the rest of their lives. Clarke is so grateful and pleasantly surprised that all she can offer is a weak smile. There’s even the tiniest of flutters in her chest when Finn holds her hand as he accompanies her to the markets— something that feels like hope. Like perhaps she _can_ do this.

The feeling is tempered the moment she spots Gustus’s stall, replaced by a sudden anguished ache so potent it has Clarke biting the inside of her cheek hard just to avoid uttering a sob. 

Gustus had been an unexpected constant in the past two years. Though he hadn’t a clue the nature of her relationship with Lexa— no one did, save for the earth beneath their tree—he was very much aware of how fiercely Clarke mourned her absence. For the first few months, they spent every other weekend reminiscing over Lexa, and when it became too painful to discuss her, they would spend time discussing such trivialities as their surface lives, or the particular breed of pound cake he’d produced that day. He had become like a friend to her, someone that reminded her of Lexa without it hurting too much. Until now, that is.

Gustus has a strange expression when he sees Clarke’s hand clasped with Finn’s; it’s one Clarke can’t discern. It flashes away as quickly as it comes, replaced by a polite smile as they approach him. It’s not quite as joyous as his usual one, but it still meets his dark eyes, has them crinkling and glinting like beetles.

She prays he doesn’t mention Lexa; she’s not sure she could bear answering questions about her that she’s certain Finn would have. He doesn’t, to her relief. But the slice of pound cake he slips into her hand free of charge has her throat closing up anyway, has her eyes welling particularly when Gustus gives a stoic, knowing nod, and she only just manages to turn her head to hide it before Finn could see.

They buy the woodworking equipment Finn came for before he walks her back home. To her surprise, Finn invites her on a trip the next week— every year he and his father attend the annual fair held at Polis, where they set up a stall to sell their latest works. This year his father has opted to stay home, too old and weary to make the trip. Finn invites Clarke in his stead, stating they’d spend the weekend there. When she hesitates, he’s quick to assure her that everything will be most appropriate; he would arrange her own room for her at the inn nearest the fair. She hesitates still, but she knows there’s no reason to turn it down. _She has to try,_ she reminds herself. So she smiles and nods her assent and feels content at the beam Finn gives her in response. He presses a chaste kiss to her cheek and bids her goodnight, and she remains in her doorway watching him leave. He is a good man; he’s been kind and gentle and patient with her. She feels no semblance of romantic inclination towards him, but her mother has assured her—as had her father in a way—that it may arrive later. 

Clarke miserably drags herself up the stairs to her bedroom. She nibbles at the pound cake as she writes Lexa her letter. She finds it difficult, as she has been of late. With the grief of losing her father earlier in the year, and before that the loss of Lexa herself, and combined with the confusing feelings of guilt wrapped up within her at the prospect of marrying Finn, she finds it difficult to know what to even say, beyond everything she has said a thousand fold before— that she loves her, misses her, wishes she were here. 

Lexa is never even going to see these. So what is the point?

Clarke sighs and shoves the half written letter into her desk, alongside the countless sketches of Lexa’s face— for once she does not bother to draw them out to pore over them. Some of them are old, drawn during the times at their tree when Clarke would wake to find Lexa had given in to sleep too, the two of them curled around one another in the shade. Clarke would extricate herself from her limbs and withdraw her sketchbook and set to work attempting to immortalize the beauty before her, spell-bound by her. She’d usually close it up before Lexa could catch her when she started to wake, but she’d spy Lexa casting curious glances at the book; she never pushed or prodded, respectful of her privacy. Now Clarke wonders if she should have shown her. As a child she often did, but when they grew older, once they were around thirteen summers or so and the butterflies Lexa’s presence put into her stomach shifted into something decidedly more thrilling, Clarke began hiding them, certain that it meant something and Lexa would see through it, would see what they meant. 

Now all but one are locked in her drawer. There’s one in particular, one of the latest Clarke did, less than a week before Lexa disappeared, when she fell asleep reading the novel before last, and Clarke woke up and simply stared at her for a time, in awe of every angle of her exquisite face, before she finally pulled out her book and drew for so long they were nearly late home. That sketch Clarke keeps beneath her pillow. She thinks perhaps she should put it away too, that two years have been enough time and she needs to move on now, but...she can’t.

Nothing feels like home without Lexa.

Clarke falls asleep with one hand resting on it, her heart aching with longing and guilt.

* * *

A week later, she and Finn set off.

The first half of their trip is led by an obnoxious rattling of one of the front wheels of their carriage. Finn catches her grimace and pulls on the reins, murmuring a quiet “ _whoa_ ” that brings the dapple grey horse to a stop. 

Finn gives her a smile. “It’s fine, my lady.”

She watches, anxious and uncertain, as Finn walks around the back of the carriage and rummages. He emerges carrying a large spare wheel and the mechanisms designed to help him install it. He grins at Clarke’s stupefied look. “You can never be too prepared,” he calls to her, his grin widening at Clarke’s growing smile.

The rest of the day’s journey goes much more smoothly. They arrive late at night, but even in the black of the night Clarke can see Polis is impressive. Finn helps her check in at the inn, citing his father’s name and paying for the ticket, and kisses her softly before bidding her goodnight with promises to fetch her early in the morning.

Clarke’s inn room is small and cozy, and she falls back to lay spread-eagle on the mattress. There’s the smallest flutter of excitement within her, and she wonders if this is what her parents meant.

True to his word, Finn arrives early. Clarke is running late— she tucks her hair into a loose chignon, praying it looks acceptable. By the way Finn smiles and greets her with a brief kiss, she thinks she must look fine. He walks with her, holding her hand the whole way, pointing out each stall and telling her bits of information about the owners and what they’re selling. Polis Fair seems to be an even bigger event than Clarke thought, a time celebrated among both Polis inhabitants and travelers alike. Vendors not only brought their wares to sell, but they participated in the festivities too, each vendor with a unique game of their own to engage with customers. Finn kept on the tradition his father had, setting up a game of darts, propping a hand-carved board up on a desk against a tree beside his stall, and let guests take aim with metal darts of his own making, each capped with strange animal figurines such as a two-headed deer, and winners gained a discount on his wares. The vendor next to him, who was a clocksmith, would play magic tricks for any who came to view his wares. Even the butcher had his own game where those who bought the finest cuts of meat could take aim to attempt to throw pies in the faces of his volunteers. 

Clarke helps him set up his own stall as much as she can, until they reach the point where Finn has to set up his equipment; he encourages her to look around and mingle as she waits, so Clarke does so, wandering over to a nearby stall containing freshly baked desserts. They don’t look as appetizing as Gustus’s. She confirms it a moment later when she eats a free sample, wandering across the dirt clearing to check out the other stalls before finally resorting to mere people-watching. It’s then that it happens. 

There are countless people here, crowds of them moving constantly, rotating between stalls to check out the goods. There are masses of people between them, yet Clarke looks up and manages to spot someone walking— her gaze shifts to her immediately, and she takes half a beat to wonder why the person seems so familiar before it hits her and she freezes, shock radiating through her.

It can’t be her. It can’t. Clarke knows Lexa is located far to the north, in the icy tundras of Azgeda territory. Yet— 

Oh God. Clarke’s heart skips, falters, stops dead in her chest; she halts so abruptly the women walking behind her bump into her, though she hears naught a word of their complaints, oblivious to all things except for the girl across the way. 

Lexa is dressed the exact same way as the other girls who walk alongside her. They’re all in beautiful patterned dresses Clarke’s family would not have been able to afford on even a year’s savings. They all stand straight-backed and proud, an air of effusive affluence about them that only the comfortably rich could have. 

These are high-class girls. Above Clarke’s station, certainly. 

And Clarke does not care.

“Lexa?”

A few heads turn her way when she calls the name, but she has eyes only for the girl who stops in her tracks at the sound of her voice. Even from this distance, Clarke sees her so clearly. The angle of her jaw, the sharp curve of her cheekbone. Her wild hair has finally been tamed, tucked into a smooth, neat chignon fixed low on her elegant neck, but there are frizzy, loose strands that have escaped. It is Lexa. Even with new clothes, it is still Lexa. _Her_ Lexa. 

Her Lexa who turns towards the sound of her spoken name and stops dead in her tracks, green eyes widening and mouth dropping open when she sees her. The girls around her all stop too, confused at Lexa’s behavior.

“Clarke?”

God, that voice. So soft, even when raised with disbelief.

_It’s really her._

_“Lexa!”_ Clarke shrieks the word, entirely uncaring of how undignified it was, how the people around her cast disturbed glances, though they shift to scandalized ones a moment later, when Clarke drops her woven basket and lunges forward. She sprints across the clearing, heels kicking up mud, and all she sees is Lexa’s growing smile a split second before she launches herself into her arms, the force of her hug knocking Lexa’s cap clean off her head.

“My God, _Clarke!”_

Lexa’s delighted laugh rumbles against Clarke’s chest as she clings to her, her arms wrapped tightly around Lexa’s shoulders while Lexa’s own encircle her waist, returning her embrace so enthusiastically Clarke is lifted off her feet, the momentum of her leap spinning them both in a circle.

“Oh I’ve missed you. I’ve _missed_ you.” Clarke squeezes her eyes shut and clings more tightly to her, face burrowing into Lexa’s neck. It’s too intimate, she’s sure, but she can’t help it. 

“I missed you too.” Clarke warms all over at the quiet sound of Lexa taking a deep intake of breath, her nose in Clarke’s hair. It’s even messier now, strands falling loose after her jump into her arms. 

Clarke can’t help but laugh, giddy with overwhelming joy and relief; it stings her eyes, has her squeezing them more tightly shut to avoid tears. 

“Is this real?” she asks, finally leaning back just to get a good look at her. She shifts her hands from Lexa’s shoulders, up to cup her face. Lexa’s hands curl into Clarke’s dress at her waist as she stares back at her as though she is dying of thirst and Clarke is her only means of satiation. 

Lexa looks older. Two years have rid her of some of the childish roundness that previously filled out her face. But she still looks just how Clarke remembered. Utterly gorgeous.

“I’m not the best one to ask that,” Lexa tells her seriously. “I feel as though I could be dreaming.”

Clarke laughs, overjoyed. She wants to hug her again, to hold her tightly, to kiss her and taste her warmth—and the realization that she is actually here, that she can, is overwhelming. Her head spins with it, and her eyes fill at once.

“Oh, Clarke.” Despite the glossy sheen to her own eyes, Lexa abruptly pulls her into another hug. They cling to each other, Clarke breathing her in, in awe at the familiar sound of her heart pressed to her ear.

_“Ahem.”_

The sound of someone clearing their throat just beside them brings Clarke back to reality with a start. All at once she realises, with a sudden jarring sensation as though a bucket of ice had been dumped atop her head, that they stand very much in plain view, and people are staring at them.

She clears her own throat, leaning back to put some necessary distance between them, though even then finds herself swaying forward to her toes, desperate to hold her again. But the girls around them are staring, and they don’t look particularly impressed with Lexa’s new company. 

“Are you going to introduce us, Lexa?” asks the girl standing beside Lexa, who watches the scene with a calculating glint in her eyes.

“Clarke, this is Ontari, a classmate of mine,” Lexa says as stiffly as the way she stands, with only the slightest incline of her head to indicate the woman. “Ontari, this is Clarke Griffin, my—my dearest friend. She was my neighbor growing up.”

The girl doesn’t have an ounce of warmth about her. She’s short, slight, and eyes Clarke like she’s an insect in need of a squashing. Still, Clarke politely dips down in a brief curtsy and says, “Pleased to meet you.”

Ontari’s lips purse, one sharp brow arching. “I’m sure.” 

After half a beat of uncomfortable, tense silence, in which Lexa glares at Ontari, who sneers at Clarke, who just stares back with a challenging quirk of her brow, Lexa gestures towards the other girls and politely introduces them. Most of them acknowledge Clarke almost as coolly as Ontari did, but at least one of them, a girl named Luna, actually nods her head with a slight smile, which Clarke takes to be encouraging until Ontari gives an impatient huff of breath and roll of her eyes that has Clarke’s smile slipping away.

Ontari looks at Lexa then, leaving Clarke to just stand there with her lips pressed into a thin line in irritation. “We need to press on, the banquet awaits.”

“I’ll follow shortly,” Lexa says, quite shortly herself. Clarke can feel the ripple of animosity thickening the air. Lexa seems to like this girl about as much as Clarke does. “I want to catch up with Clarke first.”

Ontari’s expression tightens. “Nia won’t be pleased if you arrive late, never mind wandering off with some lowly commoner.”

Clarke scowls, but Lexa speaks before she can.

“For once in your life, why don’t you keep your beaky nose to yourself?” Lexa snaps, and Ontari flushes an ugly red as the smirk wipes off her face. “Clarke isn't lowly. She has just as much right to be here as you do.”

“She’s beneath us,” Ontari retorts. “Look at how people already stare.”

“I don’t _care_ what anyone thinks,” Lexa says, voice ominously calm. She hasn’t taken her eyes off Clarke, but there’s a muscle jumping in her clenched jaw.

“I’m sure Nia will,” Ontari threatens, her smirk returning, and Lexa finally snaps.

“Tell her what you want. Clarke, let’s go.” Without waiting for another snide comment from Ontari, Lexa grasps Clarke above her elbow and tugs her away, steering her across the market, far from the other girls.

“Ouch,” says Clarke pointedly, and Lexa yanks her hand away as though burned, stopping and turning to fret.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says regretfully. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, though I may have a bruise,” Clarke says as she rubs her arm, amused. 

“I’m sorry,” Lexa repeats, looking contrite before her expression darkens as she turns to glance at Ontari over her shoulder; she and the other girls are huddled together, and by the way they continuously slant sidelong glances, Clarke guesses they are gossiping about them. “She’s a right cow.”

Clarke’s laugh bubbles out of her. 

“She seems to dislike me,” Clarke observes; she smirks slightly, lifting a hand to wiggle her fingers in a sardonic wave when Ontari stares at her; the girl’s lips curl into a sneer before she turns to presumably mutter about her some more. “The feeling is mutual.”

“And I share it too. She’s almost impossible to live with. She’s nearly as bad as Nia,” Lexa scowls.

“Nia…” Clarke recalls her name, told only twice by Titus. “That’s your teacher. Right?” 

Lexa nods. She looks tired all of a sudden, and Clarke can see proof of the age, of the years lost between them. Her heart pangs with it. “She’s...difficult. To say the least.” 

“You won’t be in trouble for speaking to me, will you?” Clarke asks anxiously. She’s had enough of causing Lexa trouble for a lifetime. 

Lexa looks away from Clarke as she says, “No, no, of course not.”

Clarke’s brows knit together. “You’re lying.”

Lexa finally levels her gaze to meet Clarke’s again. The exasperated expression she pulls tells Clarke all she needs to know. 

Clarke sighs. “Lexa, I hate how I always cause you trouble.”

“Stop it,” Lexa says firmly, before softening with a slight smile. “This is nothing new. Feels like the old days, doesn’t it?”

Clarke studies her. The frizz at her hairline; the tendrils that have escaped to spiral loose over her face. That soft crooked smile reserved only for Clarke, one side of her mouth higher than the other, tucked in no small helping of mischief. People say Clarke is the trouble but she disagrees. Lexa is downright dangerous.

Before Clarke can say anything else, Lexa steps even closer, the smile fading as she grows solemn. “God, Clarke. I’ve missed you terribly.”

“I’ve missed you,” Clarke says, voice dropping to a whisper thanks to the sudden lump in her throat. “So much.”

Lexa reaches down to take her hand, paying little mind to the crowd bustling around them as she tangles their fingers together. “It feels as though I’ve lived with a broken heart all this time, and seeing you has finally mended it.”

Such words have Clarke’s heart skipping, thrumming even harder. She squeezes Lexa’s hand. 

“I feel the same way. I’ve been— I’ve been going to our place.” Her sad smile echoes Lexa’s. “It’s not the same without you.”

“I would give anything to go there with you now.” Lexa’s voice is soft, quiet, so Clarke has to lean forward to catch it. Lexa seems to lean forward automatically in return, and Clarke’s heart falters, her stomach bottoming out when green eyes flicker from her own down to her lips. All at once, that is all she can think of. Kissing Lexa is a singular craving that takes over her whole system, her breath coming quicker and her mouth running dry in anticipation. Though they stand in a busy marketplace, for a moment, they are alone in the world, and it is as though no time at all has passed since they last stood like this. 

Then a passerby knocks into Clarke as he strides by, offering a quick apology over his shoulder as he hurries on, and Clarke and Lexa both abruptly pull back and straighten up, blinking to dispel the haze of warmth that had layered over them. 

Clarke clears her throat. “Um. Perhaps we should—” Her voice drops an octave, though she swears she doesn’t mean to, swears she means nothing by this suggestion period. “Perhaps we should find a place more private to catch up.”

Lexa’s eyes are a darker shade of green that has Clarke’s heart beating harder. She watches Lexa’s tongue dart out to wet her lips, before Lexa glances around them. “I’m not sure there is such a place here. But perhaps we can find some semblance of it. Come on.”

Clarke allows her to tug her across the clearing, weaving their way through the crowd.

“Are you living in Polis now?” she asks breathlessly, trying to avoid bumping into anyone or stepping on Lexa’s heels as she walks so closely behind her.

“No, no. The school is in Azgeda, but we travel every so often for banquets and the like, so I’ve visited Polis a few times before. I’m here today because the high class donors to the school hold a banquet fundraiser here during the fair each year.”

Clarke imagines a lavish affair, countless tables with fancy cloths laden with bountiful delicious foods. “They must be nice.”

Lexa jerks her head and shoulder in a shrug. “The food is nice, but the rest of the company leaves much to be desired. It’s very stuffy and boring. I find myself longing to wile the time away with a good book, but my best ones have long been confiscated.”

Clarke’s lips curve. “Some things never change.” Her heart skips when Lexa turns to shoot her a rueful smile over her shoulder, squeezing the hand she holds, but Lexa says nothing more as she leads her out of the crowd. She tugs Clarke down a cobblestone path, slipping through a narrow alleyway. Clarke belatedly realises it looks familiar because it is; this is the path she took from the inn she slept in.

“Here should be good,” Lexa decides, turning to face Clarke. Her face softens as she looks at her, running her thumb along the back of Clarke’s knuckles. “You look— you look as beautiful as I remember. Perhaps even more so. You look older.” She looks thoughtful as she lifts a hand, brushes her thumb over the line of Clarke’s cheek, down to her chin. “Sharper, here.”

“So do you. It’s almost hard to recognize you. Especially with those clothes.”

Lexa half rolls her eyes in embarrassment, glancing down at her dress, the end of which is now stained with mud. “Ah. Yes. They insist we dress in fashion.” She truly rolls her eyes now, reaching up to prod at her pinned hair. “I hate it.”

Clarke isn’t surprised. Even back home, Lexa was constantly in trouble for taking the pins out of her hair and wearing it loose and wild, though some, such as Clarke’s parents, couldn’t blame her with how thick and heavy it was. Clarke’s fingers twitch with the urge to reach up and remove the pins so she can watch Lexa’s hair fall free. But even with it up and tidy, looking so unlike herself, she still looks beautiful. 

“It looks lovely on you.” Clarke shrugs, face warming. “But then again most anything does.”

Lexa’s cheeks pink. Her lips curve slowly as she stares at Clarke. “The same could be said of you. This is a nice dress you’re wearing as well.”

Clarke huffs a half laugh. This is the best item she owns, and it still doesn’t hold a candle to Lexa’s. 

“Did your mother buy it for you?” At Clarke’s nod, Lexa continues, “How is she doing, by the way? And your father? I’ve missed them too.”

It hits Clarke like a punch to the gut. She freezes, heart dropping to her toes, anguish welling. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Lexa tilts her head. “Clarke?”

Lexa doesn’t know. Of course she doesn’t know. Titus wouldn’t have told her— assuming he wrote her any letters at all. 

“My father...” Clarke’s voice is weak and croaky, so she clears her throat and tries again. “He...he passed away.” She nearly winces at Lexa’s silent gasp and horrified expression. “Several months ago now.”

“Oh God. _Clarke_.” Lexa sweeps her into her arms. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Though it’s been a long time since she’s been able to cry, Clarke finds the tears rise to her eyes with no trouble now. She buries her face in Lexa’s shoulder, and Lexa buries hers in Clarke’s, and they cling to one another for some time, until they each have a damp spot on their dresses from the other’s tears.

“I’m sorry, love,” Lexa whispers when they draw back to look at one another. Her hands shake slightly as she drifts cool fingertips across Clarke’s cheeks, wiping her tears, and then shifts back into her hair to cup her and bow her head so she can press her full lips to Clarke’s forehead in a tender kiss. “I should have been there for you.”

“It’s not your fault you weren’t,” Clarke whispers back, fingers loosely curled around Lexa’s waist, desperate to hold onto her.

“I hate to think of you going through this alone. I should have been there. I should have— I should have been there to hold you while you cried, to kiss away your tears. I’m so sorry you went through this alone.” 

“You were still with me,” Clarke confesses. Lexa looks at her misty-eyed. “Always.” She takes Lexa’s hand and places it on her chest, above her aching heart. “Right here.”

Clarke is dying to kiss her. By the way Lexa glances at her lips again, she suspects the feeling is mutual. But they’re still out in the open, even if they’re secluded; anyone could walk up on them, and Clarke vividly recalls what happened last time they sought such intimacy in public.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers yet again, because that’s all she can do.

And though they shouldn’t even do this, they can’t help gravitating forward, eyes slipping shut as their foreheads rest together. Lexa’s warm breath puffs over her lips and Clarke shivers, her stomach turning again, warmth pooling. 

“I’ve missed you. I’ve done nothing but think about you every moment we’ve been apart. For two years, it’s as if I haven’t been able to catch my breath. Seeing you again, it’s felt like...like the moment you break the surface and taste air after being underwater for far too long.”

Clarke nods in understanding, helplessly overwhelmed by all the feelings flooding through her. The way her heart aches with love, the way she burns to kiss, to touch. She remembers the last night they spent together. Lexa kissing her in her bed, the dizzying _want_ that had nearly shook the entire house. She swallows, breathless, fingers digging more tightly into Lexa’s waist, and Lexa shudders against her.

“I’m desperate to kiss you,” Lexa breathes, her own hands having dropped to clutch at the small of Clarke’s back, pulling her forward though they can’t possibly get any closer. Lexa’s nose nudges her own, and Clarke is going to let her, the world be damned. She’s overwhelmed, desperate, torn between grief and longing; her eyes well again, just as Lexa’s do, because they’re finally here and so _close_.

But they both startle and lurch apart when sudden footsteps sound behind them. They’re standing several feet apart by the time someone rounds the corner. Since Clarke’s back is turned that direction, Lexa sees who it is first, and her eyes widen while all the colour drains from her face. 

“Damn it,” Lexa mutters under her breath, hastily wiping her face clean; Clarke follows suit, quickly scrubbing at her cheeks before turning to see a woman approaching them. She’s tall, thin, garbed in outrageously fancy jewelry and wearing a heavy dress probably worth more than Clarke’s entire home and all its contents. The woman has a stern, harsh face, and her greying blonde hair is pulled up into an immaculate chignon that puts all others to shame. 

“Alexandria. I’ve been looking all over the damned place for you. You are _late_.”

“I apologise, ma’am.” 

The woman comes to a stop right before them, hands on her hips and towering above. Her lips are twisted in a sneer. “I suppose you want disciplined, do you? You want a whipping and to be sent off to bed with no dinner and no food awaiting you tomorrow either, is that it?”

“No ma’am,” answers Lexa, voice even more subdued. 

“Then is there any particular reason you’re here wasting time with this—” Her face twists with even more derision, enough venomous spite there to have Clarke tempted to shrink back. She doesn’t, and lifts her chin to glare right back instead. “This _commoner?_ Good grief, child, I knew you had little brains but this is even worse than I thought if you consider this anywhere near acceptable.”

Clarke can’t believe she’s seeing this. This is clearly Nia Winters, the woman Lexa lives under now. Clarke never expected this— that Lexa would manage to become stuck with someone even _worse_ than Titus. Her heart breaks for her as she looks at her; Lexa’s head is down in deference but her hands are balled into fists at her sides, and her jaw is clenched so tightly Clarke fears she could break a tooth. 

She wants to snarl at this woman, but there’s nothing they can do. Someone that upper-class could punish them— particularly Clarke— more severely than she could imagine. So she follows Lexa’s lead and remains silent too, teeth gnashing together. 

There’s silence for a moment as Nia scrutinizes the both of them, clearly satisfied with their silence. She lifts her sharp chin higher into the air and gestures behind herself. “Catch up with the others. Ontari waits at the entrance for you.”

Lexa shoots Clarke a furtive look before she strides off, clearly of a mind that she would do less harm to Clarke by getting herself, and therefore Nia, away as quickly as possible. Even when Lexa is a fair distance away, however, Nia remains in place, staring at Clarke in much the same manner Ontari had, and so Clarke stands and waits. 

“I know who you are,” Nia finally begins, voice icy and dangerous. “Lexa’s father told me all about the ratty peasant girl Lexa spent far too much time with. You’re a menace to her, Clarke Griffin. Every moment she spends with you is a moment you drag her down. You’re dead weight. Leave the girl alone.”

Clarke opens her mouth, closes it. She burns with her blush, so badly it makes her feel ill.

“Enjoy the rest of your time in the city. I daresay it’s the closest you’ll ever be to living in such niceties,” Nia sneers one last time for good measure before spinning around and stalking off after Lexa.

Clarke remains standing for some time, brow furrowed with her frown, biting her bottom lip. Lexa’s always been so much happier around her, she never stopped to consider perhaps she’s not _healthier_ around her— that her very class status was endangered due to mere proximity to someone below her station. It makes Clarke feel guilty, uncomfortable, confused. Has she been selfish?

She returns to the fair with her feet dragging, a dark cloud of worry hovering above her head. When she spots Finn waving her over, her heart further sinks like a stone. Oh God.

She had utterly forgotten about Finn’s entire existence.

“Hello dearest,” he greets her warmly, bounding over and pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

“Hello,” Clarke stammers, flushed with her shame. “Is— did you get the stall set up?”

“Yes, it’s good to go. I’m afraid I was already fed a free lunch by the butcher, I couldn't find you to offer you to join us, I supposed you were lost amongst the crowds. Have you already eaten, or would you like me to buy you something?”

“No, I’ve— I already ate,” Clarke lies, before tacking the truth onto it with a shake of her head. “I’m not hungry.”

Finn smiles. “Alright then. Now come, come sit with me, and you can see how selling wares at a fair can make time fly by.”

It isn’t an exaggeration, though Clarke imagines it's less to do with the constant people they speak to as they peruse Finn’s selection and more to do with the guilt and longing tangled up in one confusing knot inside her. She wonders if she’ll see Lexa again. She wonders if she is a bad person for wanting to so much. 

The fair begins to wrap up around dusk. Finn gifts Clarke with a few coins to choose them some dinner while he puts away his few remaining wares, and she’s across the way deliberating between the butcher’s stall before he closes it up, and the soup stall next over, but before she can make a move a hand suddenly closes around her wrist and pulls her away. 

She stumbles and staggers in the mud, and by the time she regains her footing Lexa has already dragged her into another alleyway, this time half bathed in shadow from the setting sun. She’s hugging Clarke fiercely before Clarke can register much of anything, and Clarke is embracing her in return without thought.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with Nia,” Lexa apologises as she pulls back to look at Clarke, her green eyes solemn. “She’s horrible. I hope she didn’t say anything dreadful to you.”

Clarke numbly shakes her head, still in shock, senses overwhelmed by everything Lexa. She smells so lovely.

“Well, whatever she did say, I’m sure it wasn’t true.” Lexa gives a small smile of encouragement, before tilting her head. “What have you spent the day doing? Actually,” she backtracks, a line appearing between her brow, “I never asked you— what brings you here in the first place?”

“Clarke?”

Clarke jumps nearly a foot into the air at the sound of his voice behind her, tightly clenching Lexa’s hand before dropping it. She turns, forcing a smile on her face.

“Finn,” she greets him, voice unnaturally high. She sounds like a fool, but she feels so off-footed. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Did you— have you taken down your stall?” Lexa looks between them with uncertainty.

“Yes, it’s all ready.” Finn approaches them, aiming his pleasant smile at Lexa. “I couldn’t find you anywhere, I wondered whether you’d gone back to the inn. But who’s this? Making friends already, dear?”

Lexa’s eyes narrow. 

“Um, this is actually an old friend,” Clarke stammers. “This is, erm. You actually know her, you’re probably just, um, not recognizing her since it’s been some time, but this is—”

“Oh, Alexandria Woods!” Finn says in surprise. He offers a hand. “Finn Collins. Your father hired my father and I to some work on your estate some years ago.”

The air is rife with tension Finn does not seem to notice. Lexa’s jaw is sharp and clenched, but she smoothly greets Finn and shakes his hand in return. Clarke can tell, by the way Finn’s brows raise, that the handshake is firmer than it needs to be.

“She goes by Lexa,” Clarke says rather breathlessly and unnecessarily. She can’t help it.

Finn nods at once. “Lexa, yes. I knew you’d gone to finishing school, but I didn’t realize it was here in Polis! Pleased to see you again.”

“I’m only in Polis for the annual coalition banquet,” says Lexa, voice rather flat. “My schooling is located in Azgeda.”

“Oof.” Finn winces playfully. “I don’t envy you there. I’m not a fan of cold weather at all.”

Lexa looks between the two of them again, a distinctive frostiness in her gaze that has Clarke internally flinching. “So...why are you here together?”

“Oh, have you not yet had the chance to tell her?” Finn asks Clarke, before slipping an arm around her; Lexa somehow grows even more rigid. “We’re to be wed.”

There’s an odd choking sound. When Finn looks at Clarke in mild alarm, she realises it came from her, and plays it off as a cough. Lexa is still staring at Finn, frozen in place. Clarke can see an entire universe of grief in her eyes. Shock, horror, hurt, perhaps even betrayal— it all swirls around in the green like a hurricane intent on laying destruction upon everything in its path. Utter devastation. 

But within an instant, it all wipes away. Lexa blinks, and the mask comes on, the one Clarke saw so often when Lexa dealt with her father, the one she saw earlier today when she interacted with Nia. Lexa is expressionless as she bows her head at the both of them.

“Congratulations are in order,” she says quietly, voice toneless. Clarke stares hopelessly at her.

“Thank you,” Finn beams, utterly oblivious. He presses a kiss to Clarke’s cheek, to make matters worse. “It’s a long engagement, we won’t be wed until the coming summer, but we’d love it if you were able to come.”

“Thank you but no,” Lexa says automatically, her lips barely moving. She’s paler than Clarke has ever seen her. “I’ll finish my schooling this winter, and then I’ll be assigned as a lady’s companion. I don’t know where I’ll be.”

Clarke takes a sharp intake of breath, her heart plummeting. 

“Would you like to have dinner with us tonight?” she blurts out. It is the first thing she can think of, the only opportunity. Anything to lengthen their time together before she will apparently lose her. _Again_.

“No thank you,” Lexa says, voice a bit sharper as she directs it at Clarke. Her green eyes flash as they meet Clarke’s, and Clarke once again feels that terrible sense of guilt.

“Just as well considering we don’t even know what we’re eating yet,” Finn chuckles, extricating his arm from around Clarke. “I’ll pop over to the butcher’s again to see what he has left; you two catch up.” He presses another kiss to Clarke’s cheek, and she can’t look away from Lexa while he does so, even though Lexa immediately looks off to the side, muscle in her jaw jumping. Finn ambles away, leaving a pregnant silence in his wake.

“You’ve no ring.”

Clarke startles. “What?”

Lexa nods towards Clarke’s left hand, where she’d been staring. “A ring. You’re not wearing one.”

“Oh.” Clarke looks down, absently drifts the pad of her thumb over her bare third finger. “It’s in the shop being refitted.”

“How convenient.”

Lexa’s dry tone has the hackles rising on Clarke’s back at once. She frowns as she looks up at her and finds Lexa already staring at her, with enough intensity to burn through her skull. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re getting _married_ , Clarke.” Usually Clarke loves the way Lexa says her name, but right now it hits her like an arrow, piercing her skin, embedding in her bones. “And evidently you didn’t think it something significant you could have mentioned earlier.”

Clarke’s frown deepens. She can’t very well admit she forgot her soon to be husband existed in the face of Lexa’s presence, can she? “There wasn’t an opportunity.”

Lexa clenches her jaw, shakes her head. “There were plenty. Instead I have to hear it from _him?_ Were you even going to tell me at all?”

“Of course I was!” Clarke scowls now, folding her arms beneath her chest. “I hadn’t seen you in two _years_ and then suddenly there you were, Lexa, I was distracted!”

Lexa is shaking her head again, upper lip curled in vague repulsion. “You’re getting _married_ ,” she repeats, and it puts dread at the base of Clarke’s spine; somehow hearing it from Lexa makes it sound so much more real. 

“You think I wanted this?” Clarke snaps, anger flushing her face. “I had no choice!”

“Of course you do,” Lexa snaps back. 

“I didn’t!” She’s so furious now, rage pulsing inside her. “We’re almost nineteen now, what did you think would happen? My father _died_ , and my mother is engaged to a new man and will be moving in with him soon after the wedding. Finn asked my parents for my hand, they encouraged me to take it, and after my father died, I did so. I had no choice, and of all the men it could have been, at least Finn has been kind to me. You have no right to shame me for choices I’ve been forced to make alone, especially when you’re off— off enjoying life at school for the rich!” That last part isn’t true, Clarke knows, but she’s spiteful right now, guilty and lashing out. Still, the pained look on Lexa’s face does not bring her even a lick of satisfaction.

“My father _sent me away,_ ” Lexa says, her voice strained. “In the blink of an eye, my entire world was taken from me. _You_ were taken from me. I’ve been stuck in the most frigid place, dealing with the most frigid people who hate absolutely everything about me. And I have spent every day of it aching for you. For the sound of your voice, the taste of your kiss, the smell of your hair. _Every day._ ”

“And you think I didn’t spend my days the same way?” Clarke demands. “I spent months crying every night for you. For two years, I would go down to our tree and pray to see you again. I write you letters, I can’t stop drawing you…” Clarke angrily swipes at her tears. “I have never stopped loving you. Not for one instant.”

Lexa stares at her, stricken, pale green eyes wide and glossy. “I still love you,” she says in a hushed voice, leaning closer so Clarke can hear her. Clarke swallows back a sob, leaning in, lashes fluttering at the warmth of Lexa’s body heat so near her. “I’m yours. I don’t care how many rings you put on your finger. You will always be mine, so long as you want me.”

“I’ll always want you,” Clarke reveals, her heart pounding, yearning to close the distance between them, to finally kiss her. But she can’t. Finn is only just across the mostly deserted clearing now, in the process of buying them dinner. A man she is now engaged to. Clarke screws her face up, shaking her head, vainly attempting to stem the tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Shh,” Lexa hushes her quietly, bravely reaching up to swipe her thumbs across Clarke’s face to wipe her tears. Lexa’s face is creased with regret. “I’m sorry. I was— it took me by surprise, and I wasn’t very understanding. I know you didn’t have a choice. I’m just so sorry I could never give you one.”

Clarke understood. In this life, what they had...it was never even an option, was it?

“I’m sorry I’m getting married,” Clarke’s whisper shakes out between them as if it’s as visible as breath in winter mornings, and Lexa goes still. Clarke’s heart sinks as she watches that mask, that damned mask, slip into place over Lexa’s face.

“You needn’t apologise for that.” Lexa drops her hands, takes a step back. She clasps her hands before her, back straight and head high, and looks at Clarke with an aggressively blank, polite expression. “Your match is suitable, and you shall make an excellent wife, I am sure.”

“Don’t be like that.”

Lexa’s lashes flutter, half-blinking as though she’s flinched. “What?”

“You know exactly what I’m on about. So...so formal.”

“I’m afraid I do not know what you’re speaking of, my lady.”

“Stop it,” says Clarke sharply. “You don’t get to use inside jests from childhood if you’re going to be so impersonal.”

Lexa’s response is only to dip her head in acknowledgement, and Clarke is frustrated. Lexa is clearly trying to distance herself here in some misguided attempt to help the situation, but all it does is make Clarke ache. With Lexa’s casual touches gone and her proximity diminished, Clarke feels her absence more than ever now, and the only thing worse than Lexa’s absence is feeling like Lexa’s gone when she’s only stood right before her. 

“Are you _trying_ to hurt me?” Clarke asks in a hushed voice that cracks. 

Lexa’s brow furrows, misgivings moving like a shadow over her countenance. “I’m— I’m trying to spare us both of more hurt.”

“You know as well as I that it’s too late for that.”

Lexa’s throat dips as she swallows. Nods again, her shoulders dropping as though in relief as she moves closer to Clarke again, says in a low voice, “I’m sorry. I...I suppose that was foolish. We both know I can’t keep away from you.”

“You lasted thirty seconds that time,” Clarke gives her a watery chuckle that Lexa returns, before Lexa sobers again. She takes a deep breath.

“Clarke...I—”

“Finn’s coming back,” Clarke mutters at once, the moment she spies him exchanging change with the butcher, packaged food held in one arm. “We can’t— we can’t speak of this here.”

“We’ll speak later,” Lexa says as though it’s a promise, taking a step back to put space between them, though she doesn’t take her eyes off Clarke even as Finn approaches. “Tonight.”

Clarke shakes her head slightly, confused. How would they talk tonight when Lexa doesn’t even know where to find her? “But—”

“I bought some smoked venison and potatoes,” Finn announces proudly as he reaches them. “Lexa, are you quite sure you won’t join us? I bought enough for three.”

“No, no.” Lexa finally tears her gaze from Clarke long enough to slant a wooden smile Finn’s way. “I’d best be going. It was nice to see you both.”

“You as well,” Finn says vaguely, attention already elsewhere as he cracks open a package of meat, peering at the cut. Clarke can’t bring herself to say anything at all; she just stares at Lexa’s retreating figure, disappointment churning within her. She’s not ready for her to go. Lexa doesn’t even know where to find her tonight, so what if this is the last time they’ll see one another for who knows how long?

“Lexa—” she begins desperately, but Lexa only turns back to shake her head at her. 

“May we meet again,” Lexa calls to her, and Clarke has to work hard to swallow at the lump in her throat as she watches her walk away.

Why does it always feel as though she’s watching Lexa walk away from her?

“That’s a lovely saying, isn’t it,” says Finn, taking a sneaky bite of the venison. He offers it to Clarke when she just stares at him. “Let’s find a place to sit,” he offers instead, when Clarke makes no move. “Come.” He ushers her along the opposite way and Clarke can’t help but to twist round, straining to look over her shoulder at Lexa’s retreating figure, but the girl is already gone.

Clarke turns to look straight ahead again, a bitter taste in her mouth. 

They sit at the small wooden tables situated at the end of the fair clearing. Clarke chews and swallows mechanically, and can’t draw forth the energy it takes to fake enthusiasm as Finn attempts to engage with her in conversation. He walks her to her inn early, when only a few of the first stars were twinkling above, and offers to check on her later before bed; she allows him to kiss her cheek before entering the building and finding her way up to her room, feet dragging below her. 

She washes up and changes before collapsing into bed. Her stomach churns, and she doesn’t think it’s from the food. Lexa wanted to talk to her again, but she hadn’t a clue where she was. Should she dress and sneak outside, and try to find her herself? But what if she runs into Finn? He said he’d be at his uncle’s house, but what if he fancied a walk? 

She’s still contemplating it as her room grows darker and darker, lit only by the candles; she can’t be bothered to light the gas lamps, too busy watching the shadows grow and flicker on the ceiling. She’s going to have to find Lexa, she decides. But no sooner does she think that before she hears a rustle outside, a strange scraping sound and a thud, followed by rapid tapping on her window. She sits up in bed, and her heart jumps into her throat when she sees half of Lexa’s face peeking up through the glass. 

_“Lexa,”_ she gasps, scrambling to the window without another thought to help her climb through. 

Lexa effortlessly hauls herself in, gripping Clarke’s arm when she makes to support her. She staggers a bit once inside, looking around Clarke’s room with wide eyes as though expecting someone— Finn, perhaps— to be there. She relaxes when she sees naught but an empty room, turning to look at Clarke, who is still gaping at her. 

“What are you— how are you—”

“I may have followed you,” Lexa admits, grimacing slightly when Clarke is further astonished. “And climbed up the vines. I’m sorry. I just— I couldn’t bear letting you slip away without at least five more minutes in your company. Especially if this is— if this is the last I see you for some time.”

“Are you going to be in terrible trouble for this?” 

Lexa lifts a shoulder and lets it fall in a half-hearted shrug. “Perhaps. I don’t really care, Clarke.”

“But Nia—”

“Is wretched and sees it fit to punish me for my earlier behavior anyway. At least this is worth it.”

Clarke suddenly realises how closely they’re standing, how their arms are still slung around one another from Clarke helping Lexa climb in. She could count every individual lash that hangs low over startlingly green irises— they’re so close their noses could touch if they even breathed too heavily. They both fall silent, simply looking at one another, and the tension in the air rises to an unbearably palpable degree, an insistent warmth spreading through Clarke’s body and pooling in the pit of her stomach; she eyes those full lips and vividly recalls exactly how soft they once felt against hers, the plush give of them caught between her teeth…

She and Lexa remember themselves at the same time. They clear their throats and withdraw their arms, stepping back to put some much needed space between them.

Clarke ushers Lexa over to sit on the end of her bed with her. “I hate that you have to suffer there.” She hesitates. “Can I ask...why didn’t you— why didn’t you come back to me? Why didn’t you just...run away?”

Lexa looks down, swallowing thickly. “I thought after I finished schooling, that knowledge may help me procure a job...and if I’ve a job, then perhaps if I came back to you...perhaps…”

Clarke’s heart palpitates; her stomach flutters. She wordlessly puts a hand over Lexa’s arm; Lexa looks at her, smiles sadly and flips her arm over to take Clarke’s hand in her own.

“Let’s not waste this evening speaking of regrets,” Lexa says quietly. “Let’s talk. I’ve missed you, and I want to know everything I’ve missed the past two years.”

And they do speak of everything. There are some tears, some laughs. Clarke fills her in on the slow progress of her father’s illness, of the way he was barely more than ghost just before he finally passed. Of her many failed attempts to speak to Titus, until finally he went to her mother, who demanded Clarke cease her behavior at once; how Clarke has been at odds with her mother since the night Lexa left, how Clarke suspects Titus spoke to her about what he caught them doing (they both blush) and her mother, while understanding and sympathetic when consoling her, was also more relentless about Clarke finding a husband ever since. She avoids speaking much of Finn, though his existence hovers between them, the elephant in the room.

Lexa in turn speaks of her schooling, and how dreadfully boring it is. Nia confiscates her favourite books and refuses to let her read anything she has not first checked over. Ontari is essentially Nia’s daughter, her ward since she could walk, and has all of the worst traits of her adopted mother, never giving up any opportunity to punish Lexa— which Lexa attributes to the fateful day she apparently punched Ontari in the face after the girl took it upon herself to confiscate Lexa’s contraband book, delivering it to Nia herself. Lexa said she didn’t receive food for two days after that, but she didn’t regret it. Clarke swats her and half-heartedly chastises her, telling her to take care of herself, but she can’t help her smile when Lexa just aims that crooked grin at her.

The conversation shifts well into the night. They talk of how much they missed one another, they share each of their perspectives regarding the evening Lexa was taken away. Lexa’s eyes well with tears when Clarke tells her how she waited at the tree for her; her own eyes sting when Lexa says her father cornered her and demanded she listen to his lecture, while really waiting for his workers to arrive to help him subdue her. Lexa tells her of how she started letter after letter, but had to destroy each of them no thanks to Ontari’s dangerous snooping; Clarke tells Lexa of the letters she wrote, though she doesn’t mention that she’s buried them; the prospect of admitting that aloud has her feeling somewhat shy.

“If I give you Finn’s address, perhaps we can exchange letters once you’re away from Nia and Ontari,” Clarke suggests once she finally finds her voice. 

Lexa nods, though she doesn’t look particularly expectant; Clarke supposes her future is too indiscernible right now. 

“Do you have any idea at all where you’ll be sent?”

“None right now. Presumably it will be to some lord’s wife, or a duchess who requires company.”

“I hope it’s a pleasant experience for you,” Clarke says as softly as the way she squeezes Lexa’s hand. “You deserve a break from horrible people.”

“You mean a day like this one?” Lexa asks, lips quirking in amusement, and Clarke’s own rise in agreement. 

She’s overcome, suddenly, by how happy she feels. This is the most she’s smiled since— well, since two years ago. Since Lexa left. This is the most she’s spoken, the most she’s laughed, the most she’s _felt_ , end stop. 

Overwhelmed, she takes a deep breath and falls backwards; her legs bend at the knee and hang off the bed, but the rest of her falls flat on the mattress, arms up above her head, eyes closed. She empties her lungs with a long, quiet sigh, and when she finally opens her eyes, her heart jumps as she finds Lexa leaning over her, utter affection writ into every line of her face, softening her crooked smile and her jade eyes that Clarke can’t help but look between, in awe of that most beautiful shade of green and grey she’s been craving with everything she has for two years now.

The light-hearted affection fades as the air between them thickens. Clarke’s breath catches as she recalls this is not the first time Lexa has hovered over her in a bed. It has her throat running dry, her heart stuttering, her lips parting; Lexa’s gaze dips down to watch, darkening as Clarke’s tongue darts out to wet them. An insistent warmth crawls over Clarke’s entire body, draping over her like a blanket, and she is suddenly astutely aware that this is the most alone she and Lexa have ever been for the majority of their lives, save for their time outdoors at their tree. Every time they’ve been in a house...near a bed...family was always around somewhere, or at the very least the threat of them hung in the air. Here, now...there’s no one to interrupt. 

Interrupt _what?_

Clarke has no idea what she’s doing. 

She has no idea, but she lies there half beneath Lexa, warm and aching, and she wants to find out.

Lexa slowly leans down, propping herself up with an elbow, carefully lying on her side and leaning over Clarke. “You’re beautiful,” she says softly, eyes wide and luminous in the candlelight. “I didn’t forget that, but seeing you again…”

“I know what you mean,” Clarke murmurs. She should fight this urge to reach up and touch Lexa, but she hasn’t the strength nor the desire. She lifts one trembling hand and tucks a loose curl of Lexa’s hair behind one delicate ear before she frowns, tilting her head, studying Lexa more intently. Lexa has only the time to look puzzled before her face clears with comprehension as Clarke reaches up, begins slowly pulling out pins until Lexa’s hair falls loose and wavy, tumbling over her shoulders, the curly tips tickling Clarke’s cheeks. Clarke drops her arm to hang off the mattress and allows the pins to drop to the floor; they watch each other in the dimness, unflinching as the pins hit the floor one by one, until the last ring fades into the silence. “That’s better. Now you look more like you.”

Lexa presses her full lips together, not quite able to suppress her smile, though surprises chases it away anyway a moment later when Clarke’s hand drifts up, her thumb following the seam before catching on her plump bottom lip. _Don’t hide it_ , she wants to say, but it’s difficult to speak at all beneath Lexa’s intense gaze. 

“There are so many things I wish to say to you,” Lexa whispers, gaze growing somber as she looks between Clarke’s eyes. “But now they are things I shouldn’t.”

Despite the truth behind Lexa’s words, Clarke can’t help but feel a dark, spine-racking thrill, the ache in her heart shifting ever lower, tugging deep and intently in her lower stomach and down even farther, throbbing between her legs. This yearning for Lexa has existed for so long, in so many different ways, and she’s not at all surprised to feel it so powerfully here now; she longs for Lexa, so badly she shakes with it, and she unconsciously presses her legs together, thighs squeezing as though it can alleviate this insatiable _hunger_. “What sort of things?”

Her breathing quickens when Lexa’s does, when she watches as Lexa wets her lips again and looks down at her like she’s contemplating them all at once.

“Things like...how I wish I brought a book with me, so that I would read it to you.” Clarke’s heart aches as she softens, melts beneath Lexa, her hand shifting to cup her face. “Or how I would give anything to share just one more bowl of sugared blackberries with you. To pretend to nap just a bit longer if only to give you more time to work on your sketch of me.” Clarke bites her lip to curb her sad smile. “I long to see you beneath the sun in the orchard. To grow lost in the woods with you again. To hold you beneath our tree, to study the way the light glints in your hair, to—” She cuts herself off, but Clarke can guess the direction of her thoughts by the direction of her gaze dipping down to her mouth again. 

“To what?” she urges, because she wants to hear her say it. She needs to hear her say it.

Lexa stares for a beat longer before she blinks, frowns. She pushes herself up and rolls off the bed; Clarke follows suit, sitting on the edge and watching the way Lexa stands there, running a hand through her hair in agitation.

“It matters not,” Lexa finally says, voice muffled in the hand she drags over her face. 

Clarke reaches out, grasps her wrist to stop her from pacing. “It always matters.”

“It doesn’t. Soon you’ll be married and then someone else will be kissing you…”

“I don’t want anyone to touch me but you.” Clarke clutches her desperately, beseechingly, willing her to see. “You know that, don’t you?” When Lexa just looks at her, eyes filled with sorrow, Clarke stands up, steps closer to Lexa as though eye contact can convince her of the truth. “Lexa, I don’t want to marry him. I don’t want him at all. I want _you_.”

Lexa’s breath hitches, but she still looks lost as she looks helplessly back at Clarke. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you are marrying him.”

Guilt suffuses the very air Clarke draws into her lungs, but it’s not strong enough to overpower the longing within her, the need for _Lexa_.

“Darling, I wish I could change the world for you,” Clarke whispers, voice breaking. She cups Lexa’s face in her hands again, wishing more than anything she could wipe her sorrow away. She steers Lexa down so she can press a kiss to her forehead, and when she straightens the tilt of Lexa’s head, she has only a moment to see the faint pink dusting over her cheeks before she closes her eyes, brings their forehead to rest together. She restlessly moves hardly a second later, pressing another kiss to Lexa’s cheek, just at the corner of her mouth. She can _feel_ Lexa’s intake of breath as much as she can hear it; their mouths are so close together, she can very nearly taste her shuddery exhale.

When she opens her eyes, her stomach bottoms out again, because those green eyes are hazy, dark, and all Clarke wants to do is kiss her absolutely senseless.

“I want you. You’re all I want, all I’ve ever wanted.”

The moment their lips touch, the last lingering thoughts of reason slip away with haste. The shame fades, replaced with the heat and longing that has been simmering within her since the moment she laid eyes on Lexa, only it has intensified, burning so fervently she could weep, could drop to her knees and beg Lexa never to stop kissing her.

Lexa kisses her softly, slowly, with all the focused, tender intensity of every kiss they’ve ever had before. It’s gentle, until it isn’t. Until Clarke opens her mouth, eager to taste more of Lexa, and the simple act of her tongue meeting the wet warmth of Lexa’s changes everything. It’s hot and slick and Clarke feels the impact reverberate down low, hitting like a punch to the bottom of stomach, throbbing in the crucifix of her legs. She presses forward on instinct, pushing Lexa up against the wall. Lexa swallows the moan that crawls out of her throat at the sensation of their breasts pushing together as their hips line up.

They kiss until it is impossible to do so any longer, dizzy with the need for air, and Clarke sucks it into her lungs as Lexa dips her head to press hard, desperate kisses to the arch of her neck. When Clarke’s knees shudder beneath her, Lexa grips her hips and turns, spinning them around to switch positions, pinning Clarke back against the wall, and Clarke gives a quiet moan, throbbing, pulsating, _needing_.

“I’ve missed you,” Lexa breathes into the crook where Clarke’s neck meets her shoulder; she moans again when teeth scrape across her sensitive flesh. “This is all I’ve thought about. Having you in my arms. Holding you, kissing you again.”

Clarke bites her lip, suppressing another moan, warmth flooding through her at the idea of Lexa thinking of this, imagining it—did it make her feel the same way it did Clarke? “How—how often have you thought about it?”

“Constantly,” Lexa admits, her voice low; it seems to curl into Clarke’s ear as her full lips brush against the shell when she adds, “you are always the first I think of when I wake in the morning...and the last so late at night when I’m alone in bed and cannot sleep, so wrapped up in my memories of you; in imaginings of moments with you that have never even happened.” 

Oh, God. Clarke clutches at her hips, whimpering when they pitch forward to press more firmly against her. 

“What sort of— what sort of imaginings?”

Lexa buries a nervous chuckle in Clarke’s neck, hiding her face. Clarke reaches up to run a soothing hand down her back without thought.

“Tell me.” Clarke’s voice is a low rasp again; Lexa shudders against her. “Perhaps they run along the same vein as my own.” 

She can hear the swallow Lexa takes. “It wouldn’t be appropriate to tell you.”

 _All the more reason to,_ Clarke thinks, squirming somewhat as Lexa’s lips press to her neck again. She moans when she feels her tongue glide along her skin. 

“This. I imagine this.”

Clarke doesn’t let her get away with it. “What is _this?”_

Lexa kisses her throat, scrapes her teeth and sucks at her flesh to drive her point home. Clarke is as relentless as ever, and doesn’t let it go.

“Use your words, darling,” she suggests, voice husky. “Paint me a portrait.”

Lexa shudders, nuzzling into Clarke’s neck. “God.” 

“Please. I want to know.”

“ _This_ , Clarke.” Lexa pointedly bites her throat, dragging her tongue up in a long strip when Clarke hisses in approval. She squeezes Clarke’s hips, pushing her pelvis forward; lifts her head to kiss her senseless, licking into her mouth, catching her teeth on her bottom lip and sucking. “I think about kissing you. Sometimes I imagine I wake in the middle of the night and you’ve crept into my room, out of nowhere, and I can hardly get a word in to ask how before you’re atop me and kissing me until the room spins. Sometimes I imagine we’re back home, and I’m climbing across the rooftop to sneak through your window, and kiss you against the pane before you—before you pull me into your bed.” Clarke bites back her moan, burning with the mental images, the phantom sensations. She can practically feel Lexa beside her in her old bedroom, body warm and pliant against her own, kissing her most ardently, their limbs tangled beneath the blanket. “I imagine the taste of your lips, the noises you make when our bodies press together. I imagine...I imagine touching you.”

“Where,” Clarke gasps, overwhelmed with the desire pulsing through her. It pounds between her legs. She grasps at Lexa’s dress, unsure exactly what she is asking for as she wordlessly tugs at her, though every inch of their bodies is pressed together and there’s simply no way they could get any closer.

Lexa kisses her for a long time before she answers. Deep, filthy kisses that have Clarke very nearly sobbing for breath, particularly when she feels Lexa’s hands inching up her torso, fingers trailing a hesitant line along the fabric of her dress, coming to a lingering stop just below the swell of Clarke’s breasts. 

“Where do you touch me?” she asks pleadingly, body burning with desire as she grasps Lexa’s hands and moves them herself, swallowing her gasp; they both suck in a breath when she places Lexa’s hands on her breasts. “Here? Do you touch me here?”

Lexa is unable to hide her whimper as she nods. Clarke sighs, biting her lip when Lexa’s hands contract, squeezing, massaging. She’s never felt anything like this before. She can’t even fathom the pleasure, the _need_ wound up so tightly within her. 

She doesn’t even realize her nipples have tightened until Lexa’s thumbs are roaming across them; they’re stiff even through the fabric of her dress, and when Lexa grazes across them Clarke shudders and writhes in her grip, an explosion of pleasure igniting within her. God. She wants— she _wants_.

She cups the back of Lexa’s neck with one hand, pulling her in for a desperate kiss, and allows her other to trail over to Lexa’s chest. When she tentatively cups one breast, Lexa’s shudder drives her recklessly forward; she squeezes, marveling at the softness of it in her hand, and then brings her thumb and forefinger together, somehow finding the centre on instinct and luck alone. Lexa gasps into her mouth, whining when Clarke lightly pulls and pinches.

“Where else?” she asks desperately.

Lexa’s brow furrows, her lashes fluttering and mouth hanging open in pleasure as Clarke strokes her breast. “Wha…”

Clarke kisses her way down her neck, bites hard above where Lexa’s pulse thunders, relishing the hiss of Lexa’s breath as she shifts her attention onto the other breast. “Where else do you think about touching me?”

The words have Lexa growling, releasing her hold on Clarke’s breasts to trail her hands down. Clarke loses all her breath when those hands cup her rear, pulling Clarke even more tightly against her, except this time their legs shift, dresses bunching up, as Lexa pushes forward, and their thighs slot between one another’s. Clarke isn’t at all prepared for the burst of sensation awakening at the pressure against the core of her, where she’s hot and throbbing and— and apparently soaked, for she can feel the slick wetness coating Lexa’s thigh and knows only she could have done that. 

“Everywhere,” Lexa finally answers in a whisper, and captures Clarke’s lips before she starts moving her thigh, pitting it forward while her hands dig into Clarke’s skin, encouraging her to grind. 

Clarke gasps, hands shifting to clutch at Lexa’s shoulders as she presses against her. The heat and pressure building at the base of her stomach, stemming from the apex of her thighs where Lexa’s leg slides so deliciously against her, is like nothing she’s ever known or expected. It’s ravaging, all-encompassing, and if she had the wherewithal to think any comprehensive thoughts at all she might be devastated that they waited so long to experience this. Though she knows if they had discovered this before, she never would have been able to focus on her chores again for the rest of her life.

She tips her head back to thud against the wall as her body undulates with abandon, hips rolling as she chases the unfamiliar mountain looming before her. This is the most amazing thing she’s ever experienced but at the same time it’s not enough, she wants more. She grips one of Lexa’s hands and moves it to her breast, gasps and sighs when she brushes her nipple. She drifts her own hands along Lexa’s body, thumbs circling stiff peaks before one hand descends lower. She mimics Lexa’s positioning, one hand on her breast, one cupping her firm behind, and fits her leg more securely between Lexa’s, pitting her thigh forward until suddenly Lexa is astride it, gasping into Clarke’s mouth.

It’s difficult to feel through the layers of their undergarments, but there’s a heat emanating from Lexa so strongly it warms Clarke’s entire thigh, and with each pass of friction there’s a dampness that soaks through the fabric. Lexa is just as wet as she is, just as desperate as her hips buck and she bears down on Clarke’s leg with all the same hunger that swirls incessantly within Clarke. It’s like a lit match to gasoline, and suddenly the both of them are canting wildly, hands squeezing, so overcome with ardour they can no longer focus enough to kiss so their mouths just rest together, open slightly, one of them gasping in as the other pants out, a push and pull that has them recklessly careening on towards what must be certain destruction.

It’s such a strange sensation, whatever is building inside her. It’s powerful, overwhelming, and it feels so _good_.

“Oh, Lexa, God—don’t stop,” Clarke gasps, shudders, cries out as the tension inside her stretches to a breaking point. She doesn’t know what’s happening, she’s never done this, but she’s eager to find out with Lexa.

“Clarke— Clarke—” Lexa’s brow furrows and rises higher, mouth dropping further open as her movements grow slower, tighter and firmer—and then jerky, rhythm stuttering and faltering until she’s barely able to grind, so Clarke pushes her leg forward, blindly seeking her own culmination on Lexa’s thigh.

They both break at the same time. Never in a thousand years could Clarke describe the overwhelming relief that crashes through her body as she floods her release over Lexa’s thigh. Never could she describe the hunger and pride that surges through her when Lexa similarly cries out and shudders, convulsing with such violence it would frighten Clarke were she not experiencing the same revelation herself. It’s a sweet shock, and she feels as though her entire world has been turned on its head— nothing will ever be the same after this.

They go limp, Clarke propped back against the wall and Lexa slumping against her, the both of them twitching and shivering with aftershocks. All she can hear is their heavy breathing and the frantic pulse of her heart in her ears, one she can feel echoed in Lexa, her heaving chest snug against Clarke’s. 

“That was…” Clarke pants, shaking her head; she’s hot and sweating and never wants to move.

“Amazing,” Lexa says hoarsely. 

“An understatement.”

“What just—” Lexa shakes her head, as though in disbelief. “What just happened?”

“I don’t know. I’ve—I’ve never felt such a thing before.” It was so powerful, Clarke would not have been surprised if the world had ended right then and there. She wouldn’t have even noticed.

“Are you okay?”

Clarke laughs, giddy, nearly delirious with her joy and pleasure. “I’ve never been better. God, I’ve _missed_ you. We should have done this...much, much sooner. Years ago.”

Lexa closes her eyes, lips quirking in that attractive crooked smile that has Clarke licking her own, warmth reigniting— she wants to lick the smirk right off Lexa’s mouth. Lexa hums. “Mmm. I’m not sure we would have ever gotten any chores done at all if that was the case.”

“Who needs chores when I can draw those responses from you?” Clarke blows out a shaky sigh, warm all over as she imagines it. “I’m rather proud of it.”

Lexa’s smile widens as her head lolls around so she can nuzzle in the crook of Clarke’s neck. “So am I. Would it be terribly inappropriate if I screamed out the window just exactly how beautiful and perfect you are? I feel as though the world should know.”

Clarke chuckles. “No less appropriate than what we just did.”

The moment the words leave her lips, she regrets them. They both stiffen, and Lexa brings her head up to meet Clarke’s gaze. She warms beneath the dark green, but it doesn’t absolve her of the guilt and panic that’s crept its way back inside her.

“I’m betrothed.” She whispers it, as though afraid saying the words too loudly will make them real. 

Lexa swallows again, confusion and pain and longing all evident on her face. “I know.”

“We shouldn’t…we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I know.”

“I’m _betrothed_ ,” she repeats again, with a sense of dawning horror. Guilt surges within her; suddenly she’s all too aware of the weakness of her limp limbs, of the sticky heat between her legs, of the sweat clinging to her skin. Explicably, the humid dampness reminds her of another time— a time the rain drenched through to her bones, a time she fell on her knees in the mud watching as Lexa was carried away.

Lexa was carried away, and Clarke was left to pick up the pieces. Left to watch her father’s death. Left to Finn, who is by all accounts a decent man. She was supposed to _try_.

This— this wasn’t supposed to happen.

_“Someone like you will always serve to drag her down.”_

_“You don’t belong here.”_

_“You’ve always been a terrible influence on her.”_

She feels as though she’s been suddenly doused in ice water. 

“We shouldn’t have done this.”

Lexa’s head snaps up; she looks at Clarke with wide eyes. “We...do you— you regret this?”

“We shouldn’t have done it,” repeats Clarke, avoiding answering the question. “We— we must go back to how things were before.”

“Before? What, when we were apart?” Lexa asked incredulously. When Clarke is silent, she pales. “Clarke, no.”

“It’s the only choice. I’m to marry him!”

“But you love _me!”_

 _Love isn’t always enough,_ Clarke’s father’s words echo within her.

She shakes her head, eyes stinging, a great swell of anguish rising in her chest that she struggles to tamp down. “Marriage is a commitment, it’s about more than that. I have to at least _try_.”

“Fine,” Lexa switches tactics, eyes glossy and face both resolute and desperate. “Fine, but please don’t— we don’t have to go back to what it was before this, I cannot bear it. You are— you are still, always, above all my dearest— my dearest _friend_.” Lexa’s throat dips and her countenance ripples with the shadow of nausea, as though the very word is accompanied by the bitterest of tastes, and Clarke finds she can understand entirely, and that’s the problem. “So please don’t end this. I would have you as my friend over nothing at all.”

Clarke closes her eyes, tears slipping free, and shakes her head again. When she opens them, Lexa looks back at her, stricken.

“I am so sorry, my love.” Clarke cups Lexa’s face in her hands and kisses her softly. “But I cannot— I cannot lead a normal life with you in it. I can’t. I’ll always want for you.”

“Clarke—”

They both jump, a startled gasp caught in Clarke’s throat when there is a sudden knock on the door.

“Clarke, dear, it’s Finn.”

Clarke’s mouth drops, panic surging high in her chest as she leaps to her feet and ushers Lexa to her own.

“I’m just here to say goodnight.” Finn’s voice is pleasant, jovial, a stark contrast to the turmoil storming within Clarke. He knocks again when Clarke doesn’t answer. “Clarke? Are you there?”

“I’ll—I’ll be right there,” Clarke calls back, her voice shaking nearly as badly as her hands as she herds Lexa to the open window.

“Please, Clarke,” Lexa says, her voice strained, tears streaking her cheeks, but Clarke can’t. Her heart breaks, but she can’t.

“We _can’t_ ,” she whispers, cracked and breaking. “I’m so sorry but we—we just can’t. I’ll always love you. I swear it. But this was the only time, you understand? We can’t do this again. I can’t—I can’t be near you.”

“Don’t do this. I’m begging you.”

“Lexa…” She lets her kiss her, when Lexa gathers her hair and pulls Clarke to her, kisses her with trembling lips. All Clarke can taste is the salt and sorrow, and her whimper is lost in Lexa’s mouth. “I love you. I’m so sorry it has to be this way.”

“I love you,” Lexa’s breath hitches with a sob as Clarke breaks the kiss with a shake of her head and puts her hands on Lexa’s shoulders to push her away, to urge her down the window. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Clarke cracks out again as she closes the window, drowning out the rest of Lexa’s protests. She does it just in time, because the moment the latch clicks Finn knocks on the door again.

“Are you alright?” The knob rattles. “I’m coming in to check on you—“

She spins around, swiping frantically at her face, and only manages to walk a few steps forward when the door bursts in and Finn stumbles through, looking around wildly as though prepared to fight off a scoundrel.

“Clarke!” he says in relief when he spots her unharmed; it gives way to concern an instant later when he takes in the state of her. She’s sure she looks a nightmare right now—sweating, crying, flushed, wild haired. “My God, are you alright? What’s happened?”

“I’m—I’m—” Heartbroken. It feels as though she’s dying. Like there will never be sun or air again. “I was just— I was thinking of my father,” she says with a weak tremble in her hoarse voice. She wipes at her soaked face again, closing her eyes to the sympathy that fills Finn’s eyes. She lets him pull her into an embrace, ignoring how utterly wrong he feels pressed against her, how she craves Lexa’s slim frame and the warmth of her body, her perfect arms wrapped around her, the honeyed smell of her skin and hair. 

“I’m so sorry, my darling. Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

 _Bring Lexa back to me._ She nearly weeps the words but chokes on her sobs instead.

It’s over with. It’s done now.

And as Finn clumsily pats her back, Clarke assures herself that it’s easier this way. That Lexa will be better off. 

“There’s nothing that can be done,” Clarke buries her face in his chest, mumbling out her next words. “It’s over.”

“He’ll always be with you,” Finn says good-naturedly, and the words just make Clarke cry harder.

* * *

The ride home is long and miserable. 

Finn seems hesitant and uncertain, behaving almost as though he feels guilty, perhaps suspecting he’s somehow to blame for Clarke’s withdrawn mood. It makes her feel worse; she is the guilty one.

The worst part is that it’s not even what she did with Lexa she feels the most shame about, it’s what came afterwards. How she sent her away, told her they could never see each other again, and essentially shoved her out of a second story window.

Clarke buries her face in her hands, a rush of deserved self-loathing overcoming her.

_“You’ve always been a terrible influence on her.”_

_“Some lowly commoner. She’s beneath us.”_

_“You’re a menace to her, Clarke Griffin. Every moment she spends with you is a moment you drag her down. You’re dead weight.”_

She can’t regret it, because in the long run, this will have helped Lexa. Clarke exhales a ragged breath and straightens in her wagon seat, offering Finn a wooden smile before her gaze unfocuses, vaguely directed at the long road before them.

When she arrives home, after she thanks Finn for the trip, after she greets her mother, after she isolates herself upstairs, she pulls out the half written letter to Lexa in her drawer. She stares at the small sketch of her she’d doodled in the corner; despite not having seen Lexa for two years when she did it, it is her exact likeness. She knows she will always be haunted by her.

Clarke crumples it up. In the morning, she tosses it into the stove fire. She watches the flames overtake the sketch, and weeps for the loss of a life together that she has always craved but will never know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: this chapter contains character death. It's who you would expect. As an aside, this is a rather unforgiving world, and there is minor character death in every chapter. I don't linger on it, but it is there.
> 
> This chapter also contains some smut, though it's not explicit. (there will never. EVER. be heterosexual smut in this. You're welcome.)
> 
> Thank you and happy reading.
> 
> To those who have read it, thank you for reading, and I hope you leave a comment letting me know what you think. I thank you all for your comments last chapter. They were wonderful and give me so much joy. Thank you for making this such a fun process.
> 
> Feel free to come say hello on Tumblr. I'm deviltakesthewaltz on there.


	3. what cannot be said will be wept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I would surrender my kingdom to you in an instant,” she breathes, every inch of her glowing with warmth where her skin makes contact with Lexa’s, “if only I had a kingdom to give.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all your comments so much, you have no idea.
> 
> I hope you're all keeping safe and well. As always, warnings are listed in the end notes.

The wedding is a small affair.

Five months to the day after she last saw Lexa, Clarke bears her dress and walks the aisle. She had spent the morning trying her best to suffocate her thoughts of Lexa, scrubbing the tears from her eyes; she spent the afternoon fighting them too, holding herself as she studies her reflection in the full length mirror, face grim beneath her white veil, and fights them all the way down the aisle and while they exchanged rings, at the family feast, and during the cutting of the cake that she had made absolutely certain would not be pound cake; she spent the night surrendering to the inclination, and found herself floating alone with only thoughts of Lexa to keep her company, though she was overcome with guilt the next morn.

Still, time shifts on, and she grows a little more adept at swallowing down her memories and her yearning. Concentrates a little more on Finn’s charming smile and the way he could sometimes make her laugh.

It’s easier when she’s around others. She sees her mother every so often, less since she moved to Arkadia with Marcus Kane, but they exchange letters at least once a week. She finds Gustus at the market every Saturday and wiles away the hours chatting to him, even occasionally helping him organize the cakes at his stall. She spends several days a week in the company of her friends; Harper, a kind girl married to Monty, a farmer from which they bought most of their meals, and Trina, the giggly wife of Sterling, a bricklayer and Finn’s dear friend. The women are pleasant enough, but they’re far too invested in trivial gossip about the other inhabitants of the town, and admittedly Clarke finds herself missing the sort of conversation she’d have with Lexa. She reads her books in silence and wishes she had someone to speak about them with. 

She feels as though she’s in a constant state of waiting. Waiting for the overwhelming grief to subside, for the turbulence within her to stop crashing into her organs like the sea explodes against the lone lighthouse on Floukru shores. Waiting for the yearning to fade, that incessant _want_ that burns in her veins in every waking moment— she finds it oft takes her so much longer to fall to sleep than it does her husband, and she lay awake in the late hours, staring up at the ceiling, Finn lightly snoring beside her, and revisits her memories of Lexa as she had in a myriad of ways. She wallows so long she can almost feel her there beside her, warm body heat and the sweet scent of their orchard, the taste of her honeyed lips— she feels her as acutely as she feels the press of the stars beyond her window. It’s not a comforting notion. The brief illumination gives the hint of light but it is only the remnants of the fallout, the violent collapse...and the reality is nothing more than a cold, impossible distance.

She waits for her love to wither, but she knows it never will. 

She waits to learn how to live with it.

* * *

Half a year after their wedding marks a full year since she last saw Lexa, and the annual return of the Polis Fair marks the arrival. Like last year, Clarke attends with Finn, and cannot bear the confounding mixture of hope and dread that amalgamates inside her at the possibility of seeing Lexa again. 

But Lexa is not there. Clarke helps Finn set up his stall and finds herself barely present, responding to his conversation with short vague responses, her gaze cutting every which way searching for a glimpse of the elegance and beauty she’s been denied for far too long, even while she obstinately refuses to indulge in the question of what she will do when she sees her again, whether she should maintain her distance (and she knows she could never do that) or fall to her knees and beg for Lexa’s forgiveness for her cruelty, even while knowing it’s not something she can ever apologise for.

The anxiety has her responding to Finn with a snap in her voice, and shame trickles through her at how he balks in the face of her aspersion. He shakes off her apology and kindly suggests she go choose them some lunch, and she does so with no fair amount of contrition. 

As the day wiles away, Lexa’s absence feels less like a relief and more like a devastating blow. Clarke has told herself she shouldn’t want to see her again so much that it’s almost frustrating, to realize how poorly she lies to herself. That much is painfully evident late in the evening, when she spies a familiar line of women walking in two rows across the clearing, all dressed in beautiful gowns with spotless bonnets atop their immaculate chignons. Clarke lurches towards them without a second thought, her mind blank, moving automatically until she comes to a hurried stop before them and the women all halt, looking at her with an array of expressions ranging from confusion to curiosity to downright disdain. 

She does not recognize a single one of them, heart sinking as she confirms Lexa is not there, though it’s a relief to see Ontari isn’t either. There’s only one woman Clarke recognizes, and it’s the one who regards Clarke with shameless curiosity.

“Luna,” Clarke says, inflection tilted up as though it was a question. 

The woman blinks, smiles, nods.

“Might I have a word?” Clarke asks, not quite able to keep the desperation from bleeding into her tone. Luna blinks again, the smile slipping off in concern, and nods more seriously. The other women exchange looks as Luna steps out of the line and follows Clarke a ways off, where they have a bit more privacy.

“Hello,” Clarke says, breathless and uncertain. “Um. I wondered if. Perhaps. You could tell me, um.” She clears her throat, hating the way the blush creeps up the back of her neck to tint her face, and Luna watches her with vague amusement as though just waiting for her to spit it out. “Lexa’s not here?” she finally blurts.

Luna’s expression further softens in understanding. “No. She’s doing quite well for herself though, she’s serving as a companion for a duchess from Sankru.”

Clarke swallows against her dry throat. This is a good thing. Lexa is doing well. “A duchess?” she says, hoping she sounds impressed but sure her voice merely comes across as weak instead.

Luna nods. “Yes, the duchess Costia. I only met her once, but she seemed very kind.”

Costia. Clarke briefly recalls the woman; she’d seen a portrait of her before, hanging for sale in this very fair the year prior; she was a very, very beautiful woman. A woman of such beauty and social class would be a respectable job indeed for Lexa.

“Ah. Well.” Clarke clears her throat, struggling to rein in her emotions, blinking back the tears stinging in her eyes. She tells herself it is because she’s happy for Lexa’s success, and not because she misses her. 

“How are you doing, then?” Luna asks kindly. “I heard from Lexa you were married?”

Oh God. Clarke tries not to flinch at the idea that Lexa spoke about her— that perhaps had returned after that night, after being rejected and pushed out a window, and had been comforted by Luna and her other friends. Surely Luna didn’t know the full truth, or else she’d be looking at Clarke with far less kindness in her brown eyes. 

“Yes,” Clarke croaks. “I’m...we’re doing well.”

Luna glances downward, eyes suddenly sparkling. “Any chance of a babe yet?”

Clarke blanches, hand automatically jumping to her stomach. “No, no. Um...no luck yet.” Truthfully, there hasn’t been, though Clarke called that a bit of luck herself. Judging by the way Trina and Harper spoke of their husbands, Finn is a mellow man by all accounts. He doesn’t seem mad for coupling, nor does he ever push Clarke for it. It only happens once every other fortnight at most, and it never lasts very long. The guilt Clarke feels afterwards lasts far longer.

Luna looks wistful, suddenly, and she sighs, smiling slightly. “I envy you. I cannot wait for the day I’m with child. It’s been a dream of mine since I was a wee one myself.”

It’s a day Clarke dreads, to be perfectly frank. But a necessary one— she was assured that her whole life, how she must marry a man and bear his children. But it’s not particularly something she’s ever wanted for herself. Children are loud and smelly and the idea of even carrying one inside her is not a pleasant one. 

Clarke needs to change the subject, she can’t take discussing this any longer. “How are you doing, then?”

“Good. This is my last year of schooling, so not much longer to go yet.”

“Are you to be a lady’s companion too?”

Luna dips her head, smile suddenly shy. “Actually, I’m betrothed. I’ll be married late in the year.” 

“Oh.” Clarke blinks. “Congratulations, then! Do you...know him?”

Luna beams as she thanks her. “Yes, his name is Derek— we’ve actually known each other since childhood. His family is a bit higher class than mine, but he’s sworn he would marry me since we were children, and now…” She shrugs with the sweetest, most bashful smile. “I’ve loved him for as long as I can remember, so it’s truly a dream come true.”

Clarke’s heart twists so painfully her legs feel shaky beneath her. She manages to smile and nod and congratulate Luna, but her thoughts are spinning wildly in her head. 

If only Clarke were born as a man. Life would have been so much simpler. Yes, Titus surely would have pitched a fit about his daughter marrying someone of a lower class, but it would have been far easier to convince him...Clarke could have and would have done anything to win Lexa’s hand. 

But instead they’re both women and now the time and distances stretch between them, and Clarke feels terribly left behind. She has no right to, considering she was the one who pushed Lexa away. But still, she stands beneath the great swell of grief hulking above her, pressing its weight into her shoulders, and she yearns for the life Luna would lead.

Luna excuses herself soon enough, needing to slip back with her peers before Nia catches her absence, but she warmly thanks Clarke for visiting with her and wishes her happiness before departing. 

Clarke blindly makes her way back to Finn’s stall. She’s quiet for the rest of the day; Finn notices, and looks oddly guilty as though he’s to blame, which makes Clarke feel even worse. She tries harder to fake a smile and add some cheer into her demeanor, but at the end of the day she’s not even altogether surprised when Finn suggests Clarke enjoy a room to herself at the inn again while he spends some time with his uncle, promising Clarke she’ll appreciate missing out on all the boy talk as they go over Finn’s wares and sales from the day. 

Clarke is in a different room than the one she stayed in last year, but it still looks identical and it’s enough to make her feel sick as she eases down over the mattress. She lays rigid and stiff, staring up at the ceiling, trying not to let her gaze stray to the wall. The grief momentarily subsides as the memories overtake her, ones she almost never let herself think of but finds herself unable to resist now that she’s here. Warmth crawls over her body as she remembers. Recalls the plush give of Lexa’s mouth beneath her own, the hot slick of her tongue. How soft her breasts were against her own, how hard her hips had pressed forward, the gorgeous breathy noises that shook from her lips. Clarke groans in longing and desperation and slips her hand beneath her dress, skirting past her mound and up to the sensitive skin of her lower stomach, fingertips drifting and leaving gooseflesh in their wake. 

She’s barely ever indulged in touching herself like this, and the few times she had, it had only been a few scant brushes before she lost her nerve and quit, overwhelmed by how powerful the pressure in her body was. Except now she recognizes it— had only felt it the once before, here in this very inn when Lexa pressed her against the wall and slipped her thigh between her legs. Had felt that pressure swell and grow until it broke, and that was the most exquisite sensation Clarke had ever felt in her life, and one she chases now as she fumbles to shove her dress aside, bunching it up around her hips as she slips her hand between her legs. Her sigh shudders out of her, surprised to find herself so wanting. Her head tips back, lips parted and breath ragged as she tentatively explores herself, the muscles of her stomach clenching suddenly as she brushes across her most sensitive areas. 

She takes her time, finally allowing herself to soak in the memories of Lexa, her touch, her taste, her smell, everything. She remembers how her lips moved against her own, deep and hungry. How her nipples had been stiff beneath Clarke’s fingertips. How she convulsed atop her, how she pressed Clarke even harder against the wall when her back arched and her hips stuttered as she ground into her. How she moaned her name when she met her end on her. 

Clarke breathes her name right back out into the universe now, movements less hesitant, growing more confident and sure as she strokes herself, the pressure growing inside her. She spreads her legs wider, shifting down to press first one then two fingers inside herself. When she brushes her thumb up, rubs herself with it, the memories suddenly lurch forward, spinning into the realm of fantasy— a world where they never stopped after that first time, and nothing existed outside of the two of them in this room. Where Clarke could kiss Lexa senseless, taste the noises she would make as she slowly pushed Lexa’s dress up and trailed her hands over her warm thighs...found the heat between her legs, soaked and wanting, and touched her until—

Oh, God.

Clarke’s breath catches, trapped at the top of her chest as she hits the crest. She arches, writhes, shakes, biting her lip to muffle the cry that wants to break free, eyes squeezed tightly shut as pleasure floods through her, white hot and blinding. The room fills with the sound of her quiet panting as she comes down from the high. Her fingers are drenched as she pulls out of herself with a whimper; she turns, curls into a ball in the centre of the bed, unable to draw the strength to reach down to pull the blanket up over herself.

She would be going to hell for this, if she wasn’t so certain she was already going.

It had felt impossibly good at the time but now the grief comes roaring back and Clarke is overcome with it and her longing. She misses Lexa more than words could ever say. More than the suffocating fool misses the air; more than the buried dead miss the sunlight. She cries with it, holding her sullied hand down low away from her, clutching at her own wrist, body wracked with the tremors of her grief.

* * *

The next year passes, and Clarke tells herself she is settling.

A cold winter is spent sewing heavy garments and cooking hearty stews. She does not think about how she and Lexa used to play in the snow; about moments watching Lexa close her joyous eyes and tilt up her chin, mouth open and tongue outstretched to catch snowflakes. 

Spring is spent visiting with her mother and attending the various events in town, such as the auction she suffers through with Trina and Harper, bored out of her mind, and the cheerful bakes with Gustus, where the only time Clarke has done art in months is when he brings out a preparation of icing and kindly encourages her to help him paint the cakes upon noting how morose she is of late, and she finds she enjoys it, and judging by the impressed arch of Gustus’s brows is actually rather good at it. She does not think about how she and Lexa would take any and every opportunity to scurry down to their orchard, impatiently waiting for the fruit to grow; about how besotted Lexa looked amongst all the blooming flowers, how her cheeks would tint red when Clarke would so oft pick her a bouquet of them, and for the longest time an equally besotted Clarke had never known why. 

Summer is spent fighting the heat, fetching fresh cool water from the springs to bring to her husband who toils away in the shed, sweating as he works on his wares, preparing them, this time on his own as his father had passed months prior. She does not think about how she and Lexa would wander to an isolated corner of the local lake, how her heart would flutter as Lexa stripped her dress off, how their high peals of laughter would echo as they ran giggling to the edge of the makeshift grassy dock and leap into the water, how the both of them would blush furiously and avert their gazes from one another’s soaked undergarments. About how Lexa tried and tried to teach Clarke how to swim but she could never pay attention, too distracted by Lexa’s proximity and the occasional smooth glide of her legs across her own, and how they would drift close in the water, floating hand in hand, finding odd shapes in the clouds above; about how they would dry off in the shade of their tree, hair frizzy and wild and bleached lighter, skin tinged pink from the sun.

Autumn arrives with an unusual gust of cool wind, rather earlier than normal in the year. She resolutely tries not to think of Lexa at all, and as always, she utterly fails not to let her mind drift, but she does resist sneaking away down to their tree, and she’s resisted writing letters for several months now. Still, her heart is heavy as she helps Finn cart his latest carpentry wares into the wagon. Every year he’s grown better and better at his craft, and this time they’re anticipating making their largest sales yet at the Polis Fair.

She does well at hiding her sorrow during their journey. It’s a stark difference compared to last year, where she was filled with hope, excitement, and dread at the prospect of seeing Lexa; now, knowing there was no chance of her seeing her, she finds herself grey with emptiness. She’s made all the colder from it, tucking herself into the layers of blanket Finn had wrapped around her, and sinks into the swaying of the wagon as they are pulled down the long dirt road.

The fair isn’t quite as busy as it normally is, perhaps because of the chilly temperatures. Those there early in the morn are bundled up in coats and scarves and wooly hats as they set up their stalls with frigid fingers. The morning is dreadfully dull, with only a few customers drifting around the goods. The day warms with the sun, however, and by high noon people have finally flooded into the clearing. Finn makes several excellent sales, and is already bringing out the wares for his second day by the afternoon. Clarke helps him mind the stall as he does so, until he needs an extra set of hands. It’s when she’s helping Finn adjust the tabletop to his stall that a strange sensation creeps over her, raising the hair on her arms and the back of her neck; she has the distinct feeling that someone is watching her. But when she turns to look around, all she sees are crowds of people bustling to and fro, certainly no one stopping to spare a look at her. 

It’s only a few minutes later that it happens.

Her eyes alight on a line of women— the same school from Azgeda, a collection of finely dressed upper class girls donning fancy dresses and bonnets, walking in two neat rows as they cross the cleaning towards the distant building where the annual fundraising banquet is held. There’s one figure in particular that catches Clarke’s eye, has her heart stuttering in her chest, and she remains standing stock-still, torn between the urge to run to them and the urge to flee this entire city.

 _Lexa_.

The urge to run to them wins out.

She leaves Finn, ignoring his confused call of her name as she weaves through the crowd, breath coming quick as she hurries. The women are nearly out of the clearing now, but Clarke manages to reach them, and without a second thought Clarke cries Lexa’s name, blindly grasps Lexa above the elbow and tugs her around and— 

And it’s not her. 

It’s some stranger, and though she does oddly bear a passing resemblance to Lexa, Clarke doesn’t know how she mistook her. She’s far younger, shorter, her face round and her eyes blue.

The girl looks at Clarke in startlement, eyes blown wide, and Clarke drops her arm as though she’s been scalded.

“Oh, I’m— I apologise. I thought you were someone else.”

“You thought I was Lexa?” the girl questions, smoothing down her rumpled dress. 

Clarke’s heart thuds. By the girl’s tone, she seemed to know the name. “Yes, do you— do you know her?” The thuds shift to soars when the girl nods. 

“Yes, she’s here with us today. She was actually just with us, but…” The girl looks around, brow furrowing. “She’s gone somewhere, it seems.”

Clarke’s stomach lurches most unpleasantly even as her heart rate grows wilder. So Lexa is here. And she disappeared…

“Wait, she’s with you?” Clarke frowns. “I thought— I thought she was serving as a lady’s companion down in Sankru?”

At her words there is an immediate response from the other women around them, a tittering of poorly muffled giggles and whispers. Clarke glances around at them all, puzzled, and the younger girl shifts her weight on her legs, appearing uncomfortable.

“Um, yes, she...she was.”

“Until she was fired,” snickers a nearby woman, whose friend buries her cackle in her shoulder. 

_Fired?_

Clarke is lost, trying to discern their reactions. Before she can say much else, the woman at the front of the line snaps her fingers and urges the others to continue on for fear of inciting Nia’s wrath with their tardiness, and the giggling women leave gossiping the whole time, though Clarke doesn’t catch much more than _Lexa_ and _scandal_. The younger girl gives her an apologetic smile that appears as a borderline grimace, bowing her head and offering a polite farewell before scurrying off after her peers.

Clarke remains standing there, her head spinning. Lexa was fired? That can’t be right. Lexa was so smart, and she was serving as a companion— all she had to do was keep the woman company, talking to her, long walks, whatever the duchess needed. How could she be _fired?_

Eventually she pulls herself out of her reverie and makes the slow trek across the market to return to Finn’s stall, but she’s interrupted on the way when someone calls her name. She spins around, heart leaping, to spot Gustus— seeming extra tall and broad, hulking over a rickety old stand wedged between the butcher and the fur trader. 

“Gustus!” Clarke approaches him, smiling. “I don’t know how I didn’t see you before!”

“I was somewhat late,” he confesses with a wry smile, working diligently at the same time, reaching below his rather shaky, chipped stall to pull more cakes out to display. “I’m afraid my wagon isn’t in the best of shape, but better late than never, eh? I’ve not had the time to think up a festival game, but hopefully the cakes will suffice as tempting enough on their own.”

“You were finally invited!” Clarke beams. She’s without doubt happy for him, knowing how long he’s longed for this, but she can’t deny a tiny part of her is also grateful for there being something and someone else to focus on right now aside from the grief stewing inside her. 

“All thanks to Lexa.” Clarke’s heart rate kicks up a notch at the sound of her name. When she tilts her head inquisitively, Gustus helpfully adds, “I wouldn’t have received the invitation without her help. She informed the duchess she serves as a companion to of my work, and the duchess reached out to the right people and ensured my presence here. I can scarcely believe it, truth be told.” He glances around, his face growing more serious suddenly as he leans in towards Clarke, voice a lower register as he admits, “I almost feel like an imposter.”

“Nonsense,” Clarke says immediately. She puts a bracing hand on Gustus’s large forearm. “You’re the most deserving person I know— your cakes are to die for,” She gestures at the way he’s organizing his stall. “And it seems the customers think so as well.”

She’s tickled to detect a hint of a blush hidden somewhere beneath Gustus’s bushy beard. His smile is tinged with a shy delight, and Clarke returns with a broad grin. Her high spirits only last so long, however, and they sink back down when her thoughts drift to the very reason behind Gustus’s presence. 

“Have you—have you seen Lexa here yet?”

Gustus blinks. “No, and I didn’t imagine I would. Isn’t she in Sankru?”

So he hasn’t heard of any rumours. Clarke supposes that’s not a surprise; Gustus is a stranger here, and he wouldn’t be privy to any gossip, particularly about the higher class. 

“I think she may be here visiting,” Clarke says, and she manages to make her tone much more casual than the expression on her face, judging by how Gustus’s gaze softens with sympathy. “I...I haven’t caught her yet.” _I don’t know whether I should._

“It’s easy to miss someone in the crowd— look how long it took us to find one another.” He gives Clarke a reassuring smile, though she’s not reassured. “Perhaps she’ll cross our paths later today.”

Clarke only nods, because she doesn’t know if she can say _I hope so._ In a way, that’s all she does— every part of her aches at the mere hint of seeing her again. But there’s another part of her, shriveled with shame and panic, that dreads the idea. That knows Lexa must surely hate her, that she doesn’t want to see Clarke at all, and it’s that more than anything that has Clarke feeling cold and clammy. 

She bids Gustus farewell not long after, promising to visit him again later in the day. She returns to Finn’s side, nonchalantly rattling off an excuse when he inquires the reason behind her abrupt departure, and then spends the next hour or two trying to force herself to relax. She’s not particularly successful, often fidgeting restlessly in her chair and casting furtive glances around the clearing, though she resolutely tells herself she’s certainly not looking for a certain woman...

As the afternoon passes, she begins to lose hope. If Lexa is truly here yet has not sought her out, then she does not want to see Clarke. And despite the devastating wobble that puts to her fractured heart, Clarke cannot blame her.

Near evening, not long before the vendors are due to begin packing up, Finn asks Clarke to retrieve them an early dinner. The crowd is full and buzzing with energy as everyone rushes to do their last minute shopping, and Clarke begins making her way through the crowd, intent on visiting the butcher so she could see Gustus again. To her surprise, however, Gustus ends up finding her first, his towering frame looming out of the crowd. People part before him like the sea as he makes his way towards Clarke with a smile on his face and a bundle of red thread in his hands. 

“Since I wasn’t able to prepare ahead of time for a carnival game, I’ve made one of my own. Hold out your hand.”

Clarke does so, a brow raised, and rising higher still when Gustus begins tying one end of the thread around her smallest finger. 

“It’s a promotional event more than anything,” Gustus mutters as he ties the string in a little bow. “But I thought it might be a clever way to encourage people to mingle as well. Classes don’t matter here, anyone can be tied together.” 

“I’m tied to someone?” Clarke asks, bemused.

Gustus smiles. “Yes indeed, Miss Clarke. It’s a very long bit of thread, you see, and you’re to use it to find the person waiting on the other end. People can then come to my stall and if they buy one cake slice, they receive another for free.” He winks good-naturedly. “But you can get the family discount, and have both slices on the house.”

She laughs, charmed despite herself. It’s not a bad ploy to get more customers. From the looks of other people who have agreed to the game, how they’re laughing as they try not to trip or tangle one another as they follow their thread, it seems to be successful and good fun so far.

Gustus grins as he steps away, already fishing another bit of yarn from his pockets, unraveling it for the next victims. “See you in time!”

Clarke shakes her head, amused, and then peers curiously down at her thread. It’s long and loose enough it swings to the ground, passerbys stepping on it and pressing it into the mud with the soles of their shoes; Clarke grips it between a thumb and forefinger and delicately plucks it up to free it from the mud it’s embedded in, and raises her brows in surprise when the thread shakes in her hand ever so slightly, as though being manipulated from someone on the other end. 

For a reason she can’t quite explain, she feels her throat go dry, foreboding rippling through her so strongly her heart thuds under the onslaught. Surely not. Surely Gustus has not tied this to...surely that’s a coincidence too great. If he had seen Lexa, he would have told her.

Clarke swallows. Takes in a long, shaky breath. 

There’s only one way to find out.

She winds the thread in a heap in her hands as she follows it, bobbing and weaving both customers and other participants alike, on more than one occasion exchanging an awkward chuckle with a stranger as they’re nearly tangled up together in their own threads they’re following. Her string grows tauter the longer she follows it, until it’s stretched up high at waist level, causing those around her to duck beneath it or lift a knee to take a huge step over it. 

Her heart pounds, certain she’s only moments away from discovering who is on the other end. _Please don’t be Lexa. Please don’t be Lexa._ (She hates that the idea of it not being her is just as terrifying).

It’s Lexa. 

Clarke freezes in place and loses what little breath remains in her lungs. The people between them shifted out of view at the perfect moment, leaving their string unimpeded, and they both lock eyes at the same moment. 

Two years. Clarke feels those green eyes on her for the first moment in two years; the last time she looked into them they were grey with tears, imploring her not to do what she did, before Clarke pushed her out of a window and out of her life.

Oh God. She can’t do this.

Lexa’s face is blank, expressionless, for only a moment before she blinks and it hardens, and Clarke feels the shift like a palpitation in her heart. Lexa takes one step forward and Clarke jumps like a startled deer, automatically turning to flee, bumping into someone and turning again, then again, and by the time she’s found an opening and lurched forward, the worst happens. The thread has tangled around her, from her waist to her legs, and constricts as she begins to fall.

Someone tries to catch her at the last moment, but Clarke is too off balance and brings them down with her. She lands hard on her back, the wind knocked out of her. She could very well wail with grief when she blinks up at the girl sprawled atop her, grimacing with pain— Lexa.

 _Lexa_.

“God.” Lexa frowns, rubbing the heel of her hand across the reddened spot on her forehead; Clarke realises with a jolt they had headbutted in their fall, her temple throbbing all at once. “I see you’re still as clumsy as ever.”

That voice. Soft even when flattened with irritation.

Clarke blushes furiously.

“I’m— I’m sorry, I—“

“Was trying to run away from me, yes, I noticed,” Lexa says dryly, the roll of her eyes sinking Clarke’s heart even more. Clarke hastily shoves the thread down her legs to untangle as best she can as Lexa heaves herself up, taking the hands offered to her by a few helpful strangers who stopped to help upon witnessing their graceless tumble. 

Clarke’s hand trembles when she clasps the hand Lexa extends for her. She hauls her to her feet, and the two of them stand in silence for a moment, avoiding one another’s eyes as they pat the dirt from their dresses. Clarke can’t resist it any longer after a time, and struggles to regain the ability to breathe properly as she gazes at Lexa, taking her in. She looks older. Her hair is lighter than normal, bleached by the sun in her time in Sankru; her skin is tanned, freckles dotting across her cheeks and nose. Clarke’s chest constricts.

“I missed you,” she blurts out, her voice soft and low. She doesn’t take it back even when Lexa’s frown deepens as she averts her gaze.

There’s a pregnant pause where mortification creeps up Clarke’s spine.

“How have you been?” Lexa asks eventually, voice stiff. It hardens when she adds, “How is your husband?”

Clarke clears her throat, willing the heat to leave her face. “Fine. Both fine. How— how are you?”

“Fine.”

Clarke belatedly realises the thread is still tangled, wrapped around her arm from her hand up to her elbow, while it’s only barely tied on to Lexa’s finger. It’s a worthy metaphor, Clarke thinks.

She doesn’t know what to do, and she curses herself for not spending even a second contemplating what she would actually _say_ once she saw Lexa again; she’s imagined it so many times yet somehow she never grew past than the initial reunion where she would see her again, and would find herself in a similar situation as right now, blindsided by Lexa’s beauty and the sheer shock of standing before it again.

And then Lexa’s perfect, plump lips part, and ruin it all.

“I should be going now.” 

Clarke freezes. Lexa says something else, her stony gaze directed somewhere off to the side as she prattles on something about needing to be at a banquet right now, but Clarke hears next to nothing; she stopped registering any sound at all save for the shattering of her heart the moment she realized Lexa intended to leave her presence as quickly as possible. 

Lexa’s head is down as she focuses on untying the string wrapped around her smallest finger, finding it difficult using only her left hand to do so. Lexa is about to leave, and Clarke has still said _nothing_.

She panics and grasps the thread, tugging it on instinct. Lexa’s hand jerks away, out of the grip of her other hand; she looks up at Clarke at once, eyes wide with mingled incredulity and indignation, and Clarke grimaces, though she doesn’t drop the thread.

“Um, wait. We should— we should talk.”

“About?” Lexa arches a haughty brow that has Clarke tempted to shrink back into herself. She doesn’t. She hunches her shoulders but keeps her head high, ignoring the wobble of her chin.

“About what happened. About—”

Lexa cuts across her. “You nearly smashed your head on the ground, I half caught you, and we both survived to tell the tale. End of story.”

Clarke pauses, stunned, and the guilt twists even higher inside her. “No. That’s not— you _know_ that’s not what I’m referring to.”

“There’s nothing else to discuss.”

Lexa isn’t even looking at her. She has an air of impatience about her, and it has Clarke flaring up at once.

“I’m trying to apologise!” Clarke says angrily. 

“There, you just did, I heard it. We’re done.”

“We are not done!”

“You apologised, I accepted it, that’s enough,” Lexa snaps.

“That is _not_ enough! I know you’re angry, stop trying to act like you’re above it all! I shoved you out of a window after— after what we _did_ , for Christ sake!”

There’s a pregnant pause in which they just stare at each other with wide, angry eyes. Clarke can’t quite regret her outburst, due to the fact that the insufferable indifference is finally wiped clean from Lexa’s face, even if it is replaced by an outraged disbelief. Clarke does, however, loathe the uncomfortably hot mortication snaking up her spine as she realises the people around them have taken notice and are openly staring.

“Oh my God.” Lexa gives an equally angry exhalation, frustrated and fed up, glancing around before shaking her head and nudging Clarke’s shoulder. “Go. Turn around, come on.” She grips her arm and steers her away, out of the crowd. “If you’re going to be a dogged fool then we should speak in private. Let’s go.”

Clarke is certainly not going to complain about that.

Lexa leads her a long way down an empty alley, far from any prying eyes or eavesdroppers. It’s only once they reach the brick wall constituting the dead-end that Lexa turns to her, folding her arms beneath her chest. Clarke stares back at her for a moment, forehead knitted and teeth worrying her bottom lip. She picks at a loose thread hanging from the hem of her dress sleeve, and then stills, grimacing, when she pulls too hard and the hem unravels. She feels Lexa’s eyes on her and sheepishly looks up; Lexa had been witness to far too many of these same instances where Clarke would ruin her clothes and then have to take the time to fix them back up, all the while as her mother complained at her poor habits. When they were younger Lexa would often hold her hand in order to stop her from doing it, which in hindsight is perhaps why Clarke found herself developing such a dreadful habit in the first place.

Lexa stares at Clarke’s sleeve for a moment in bemusement before her eyes flit up to meet Clarke’s. For a moment her lips quirk, and Clarke thinks she’s going to do as she always did and smile despite herself. Instead her mouth presses into a hard, flat line, and Clarke’s splintered heart shudders within her chest.

Clarke realises all at once that this is not the same Lexa she once knew. This Lexa is...hardened, guarded and closed off. Which perhaps she was guarded before, but...never with Clarke. Clarke’s brow gently furrows, perplexed with how utterly vast a difference two years could make, let alone the chasm that her mistake lodged between them. This Lexa is almost a stranger; she’d spent the past two years living in Sankru, and Clarke had no idea how she lived then. 

“Are you alright?” Clarke asks, because she’s desperate to know. 

“I’m fine.”

Lexa’s lips still don’t quirk, even when Clarke glares at her. The glare hides the anguish whirling within her like a hurricane; she doesn’t know what to do. She wants her Lexa back. She doesn’t want this. She wants to beg her to not be so cold with her, to allow Clarke a chance to fix this— but Clarke knows there is no fixing it at the same time. Lexa is right, what’s done is done. Clarke made her choice, and will always pay for it.

The only thing worse than missing Lexa over the years has to be this. Standing directly before her, but they might as well be miles apart. Lexa is so far away Clarke half fears she could reach out and her hand would pass right through her, like a ghost.

“Can we please,” she begins, voice strained, unsure how to vocalize what she wants. “I— I just miss you, can we…”

Lexa seems to catch on, and Clarke fully expects her to utterly reject the notion of trying. To her surprise— and relief— Lexa doesn’t.

“How is Abby?” she asks stiffly, and Clarke looks at her with such gratitude Lexa must not be able to bear it, glancing away before finding the strength to look back at her.

“Good. She’s good. She lives in Arkadia with her new husband, Marcus Kane.”

Lexa’s nose twitches. “The news editor?”

Clarke nods. “Yes. He’s actually not a bad fellow, and she...she seems happy with him.” It doesn’t hurt quite as much as it once did to say that. Lexa watches her closely.

“Are you happy with that?”

Clarke shrugs. “I’m happy she’s happy,” she says carefully, unwilling to go into depth right now about how much she misses her father and what he might think of the situation, and changes the subject. “What about you? Do you ever— do you ever speak to your father?”

Lexa’s face immediately settles into the usual stony mask she had when her father was involved, and Clarke regrets bringing him up at all. “He writes me the occasional letter.” She looks at Clarke curiously. “Do you ever see him much now?”

“He travels often. I haven’t seen him in years.” Not since about a week before Clarke’s wedding, when she’d ran into him at the market. The mere memory makes her blood boil. He’s basically congratulated her on finding a man willing to marry her, on top of it surprisingly being someone of her own meager social class rather than below. Clarke had barely resisted the urge to knock the ham she’d just bought over his bald head. 

God, she hates that man. Though it’s still nowhere near as much as she loves his daughter.

She tilts her head, wondering if word of a scandal had reached his ears yet; the idea fills her with both the familiar, instinctual dread on Lexa’s behalf, and a singular bemusement—she imagines he can’t have heard, otherwise she would have caught wind of his death; such poor press would surely have given the man a heart attack.

Of course, that’s assuming the rumours are even true. Clarke looks at Lexa for a moment, contemplating how best to broach the subject, before finally deciding to just take a dive.

“Why are you not in Sankru, Lexa?” she asks gently.

Lexa stiffens, eyes flitting to Clarke and then immediately away. Clarke frowns when she notices the tips of Lexa’s ears have reddened, but she waits as patiently as she can for her to find her words.

“I was fired,” Lexa says finally. She still won’t look at Clarke.

“For what?” 

Silence, for a long moment, before:

“Inappropriate behavior.”

Clarke looks at her blankly, puzzled. Was she caught reading on the job? Her hair down? What?

Lexa takes a breath at Clarke’s visible confusion and licks her lips, adding, “ _Very_ inappropriate behavior for a lady.”

It sinks into Clarke a beat later, when Lexa just stares at her with heavy lidded eyes, a challenge in them, as though daring Clarke to guess. _Oh_. Clarke’s chest tightens. Rage sweeps through her all at once, so much so she actually trembles with it. Lexa notices but she says nothing, just stares at Clarke with an indifferent expression, as though bored.

“With _who?”_ Clarke asks between clenched teeth. She doesn’t even notice the way her hands have balled into fists at her sides. “Who was he?”

Lexa laughs. “ _He?_ You really don’t know me as well as you thought.” When Clarke’s brow furrows, Lexa chuckles again, though it sounds nothing like her usual laughter. It’s cold, derisive. “God, Clarke. I’m only attracted to women. I thought that was obvious.”

Clarke flushes what she’s sure is an ugly red. For some reason knowing it was a woman is even worse. Perhaps a part of her never thought of Lexa being attracted to anyone at all...except for herself.

Lexa seems to come to the same conclusion at the same time. She tilts her head, a corner of her smirk twisting down with irritation. “What, you thought you were the only girl for me?” Lexa swallows and her gaze skitters away as the scowl settles into her face. “You thought wrong.”

The rage abruptly shifts into something more devastating, something that tastes suspiciously of hurt and grief, and all at once Clarke is desperate to leave, to get as far away from Lexa as possible.

“Okay. Well. Good for you.” The words are so stilted, oddly strained, that even Lexa frowns, shooting her a look. “I. I hope you’re very happy together.”

Just as she’s considering her escape, which very well may be simply turning and making a run for it, Lexa exhales through her nostrils, a huff of breath in pained frustration.

“Perhaps we could have been, but not now. I was fired, so I’m sure she’ll be replacing me with another lady’s companion soon enough.”

It clicks for Clarke a beat later, and she only just manages to suffocate the choked noise trying to escape her throat. The duchess Costia. _That_ was who Lexa was— That beautiful woman who looked as though she could have been carved from the gods? 

“I must be getting back now,” Clarke says automatically. 

Lexa blinks, and for a moment a shadow of something passes across her face— guilt, perhaps. It doesn’t matter. Clarke abruptly turns to go, though after only a few steps forward her way is impeded as she’s jerked back by the thread still tangled around her.

“Wait,” Lexa says calmly, stepping forward to begin untangling the string from Clarke’s wrist. 

Clarke fails to suppress the shiver at Lexa’s touch brushing across her skin. Lexa notices, pausing, green eyes flitting up to look at her, and Clarke obstinately looks away, willing the heat to fade from her face.

“Does she treat you well?” Clarke whispers. Her heart aches, a lump forming in her throat. But she has to know.

Lexa stills in surprise, her cool fingertips pressing to Clarke’s wrist; she wonders if she can feel the wild thrum of her pulse beneath them. “Yes,” Lexa says back, just as quietly. “She was very good to me.”

Clarke bows her head, fighting the grief burning in her chest. Good. That was good. Lexa should always be treated well. Clarke should not ask the question on the tip of her tongue. She absolutely should not ask.

She asks.

“Do you love her?” It’s painful, how the words sing from her lips with sorrow, an anguish that bleeds within her.

Lexa only looks at her, expression twitching and betraying her emotion when tears fill Clarke’s eyes. Clarke takes a shaky breath and looks up, trying her best to fight them; she doesn’t want them to guilt Lexa into softening, she wants that to happen of Lexa’s own accord.

“I should be going.” Lexa eventually says. The way she didn’t answer the question feels the most damning of all, and Clarke can only nod, sucking in a shaky breath. She doesn’t move when Lexa grips her wrist again, working quickly to loosen the threads. They’re close together— probably more than Lexa realized, by the way she tenses when she feels Clarke’s gaze on her. Clarke unconsciously drifts forward, heart thudding when Lexa does the same. They lean towards one another.

Clarke doesn’t intend to, and by the knit of Lexa’s brow she doesn’t think she did either, but suddenly they’re both leaning in, heads tipping forward, foreheads resting together, eyes closed and bodies trembling. Warm breath fans over their lips when they exhale quiet, shaky sighs, but they make no moves forward; this, they each know, is stolen enough.

God, Clarke can _smell_ her. The sweet scent of her hair. It fills her lungs with sweetness and they ache and swell, having long been starved for it. The tips of their noses press perfectly together and Clarke must bury the sob rising in her chest. For a moment, she feels like herself— she feels whole, she feels right in the world. For a moment, the years and the pain fall away between them, and it is as if nothing ever changed. It has words bubbling up from her chest to her lips; words she knows she has no right to say.

Yet still, a broken whisper escapes her lips and slides out in the centimeter of space between them, suffusing them in its soft hunger.

“I would surrender my kingdom to you in an instant,” she breathes, every inch of her glowing with warmth where her skin makes contact with Lexa’s, “if only I had a kingdom to give.”

Lexa pulls back with a sharp inhale followed by a sharper exhale, sniffling, cheeks puffing as she blows out another breath. She opens her mouth, closes it. Finally she seems to give up on speaking and merely dips her head in polite farewell, eyes avoiding Clarke’s, and Clarke can do nothing more than watch Lexa turn and leave, the red string travelling with her for a few steps before she remembers herself and drops it. It floats to the ground as Lexa rounds the corner and exits the alley without another backwards glance, and Clarke stands there with the thread pooled around her feet, staring at the place Lexa disappeared.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Clarke spills the thread into a rubbish bin before she returns to the market, and she doesn’t see Lexa again. Her eyes shift the crowds often for her, but she catches nary a glimpse. She tells herself that’s fine. She tells herself this is to be expected. She tells herself she was lucky to get what little time she did have, speaking to Lexa alone as she did.

She helps Finn pack up his stall, and she avoids wandering off to speak to Gustus. She can’t bear his hopeful smile, imagining he’d given her some pleasant surprise by tying her to her lost friend. Finn walks her to her usual inn and kisses her goodnight, and Clarke washes up before lying down in bed. She scrubs her hands over her face and stares up at the ceiling. She feels numb, tired. Perhaps the grief and heartache was too potent, so her body simply shut off all feelings to protect her. 

Perhaps this is safer. Easier. She can just concentrate on the banalities of life now. On surviving. What else matters, after all?

Her room is dark when there’s a knock on the door. She sighs, quickly lighting the candles, and walks over. Finn had already bid her goodnight, stating he’d return from his uncle’s to fetch her in the morning, so she doesn’t know why he’d be back.

But when she opens the door, it’s not Finn at all.

“Lexa?”

To say Clarke is shocked doesn’t do her astonishment justice. She’s half convinced she’s dreaming. Lexa is standing at the door with a plate of wrapped up cake in her hands. 

“What— what are you doing here?”

Lexa sighs. She looks as tired as Clarke felt only moments ago (now she feels absolutely wide awake). “I don’t really know.” She glances around, peering over Clarke’s shoulder. “Is Finn here?”

“No,” Clarke says immediately. “No, he always visits with his aunt and uncle at this time.”

Lexa nods. Takes a deep breath. “May I come in?”

Clarke gapes for another beat before Lexa raises a bemused brow and she snaps into herself again, swinging the door open wider. “Yes! Yes. Come in, please.”

She doesn’t miss the way Lexa’s steps falter as she passes the wall; just like last year, this is a different room but they all look identical. Clarke’s heart kicks up speed and she bites her lip, averting her own gaze from the wall.

Lexa stands in the centre of the room and Clarke stands several feet away across from her, and can do little more than stare, speechless. Lexa’s ears are tipped red and she seems uncomfortable, but she automatically extends to offer Clarke the plate.

“Gustus found me,” she explains. “He said he owed us each a slice, and asked me to bring it to you.”

“I…” Clarke clears her throat, shakes her head, and steps forward to grasp the plate. If her fingers brush Lexa’s, and Lexa’s hands twitch away as though they’ve been scalded, Clarke acts as though it didn’t happen, and turns to hide the way her face falls, placing the plate on the dresser. “Thank you,” she says softly once she’s gathered the strength to turn and face Lexa again. Lexa looks as though she’s seriously contemplating hurling herself out of the window this time. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. I suppose I…” Lexa exhales, slow, careful. Clarke notices the way she clasps her hands together before her, guarded and nervous. “I felt awful. I didn’t want...I didn’t want that to be the last time we saw each other for however long.”

Clarke swallows. Dips her head in agreement. “I appreciate it, though you have nothing to feel bad about. You’ve...you’ve done nothing wrong, Lexa.”

Lexa looks away, and Clarke is confused by the guilt that flickers across her face like a shadow. It’s cleared away in the next second, and Lexa looks up at her, changing the subject quickly.

“So, there you are. I suppose I should get back now.”

“Wait,” Clarke blurts, and then pauses, the two of them staring at one another, and Clarke casts around for some excuse. “Um. I—I can’t possibly eat both of those, that’s far too much cake for me. Won’t you— won’t you stay and have one?”

Lexa arches a skeptical brow, and Clarke ignores the flutters it puts in her belly. “Clarke, I’ve watched you eat four slices on your own before.”

Clarke huffs in amusement. “Then you remember what a mistake that was.”

Delight and relief surge through her at the way Lexa’s lips quirk for a second, clearly remembering how she’d had to hold Clarke’s hair back while she retched. To be fair, all that cake might not have been such a problem if they hadn’t decided to go swimming in the lake directly after, on such a swelteringly hot day. Never mind the fact that Clarke could not swim and had accidentally drifted out farther than she could touch the lake floor and Lexa had to drag her back to shore when she panicked.

Lexa half rolls her eyes, grudgingly. “I suppose. But I’m not hungry right now.” She must see how Clarke’s face falls, because she swallows and adds, “I could split one with you.”

Clarke bites her lip again to curb her grateful smile.

She has no choice but to use her fingers to split a slice into halves, handing Lexa her own; they both keep a hand cupped to catch any falling crumbs as they begin to eat.

“Is this the first one you’ve had since you left home?”

Lexa shakes her head, and after swallowing her current bite, says, “I had one at Gustus’s stall earlier today.”

“Was it as good as you remembered?”

Lexa smiles slightly. “Better.” Clarke mirrors her smile, offering another pinch of cake that Lexa accepts with as much grace as one can manage when eating such a crumbly concoction with her fingers. “Are you able to visit him often?”

“Every weekend. It would be more, but I—I help Finn with the paperwork for his carpentry business.” She tried to hide her panic at her stupidity for mentioning him with a blase eye-roll. “I really ought to call it a job, he’d be lost without me. He’s gone often for work and I’m the one that runs his shop while he’s out.”

Lexa gives a noncommittal hum, all traces of light now gone from her countenance. She shifts into pensiveness after a moment, a gentle furrow to her brows. Clarke looks expectantly at her as she finishes the last of her cake, nudging the remaining bite to Lexa, who pops it into her mouth only after looking questioningly at Clarke to ensure she did not want it.

“You look as though you want to ask me something,” Clarke prompts when Lexa still says nothing, chewing in silence. 

Lexa hesitates. “It’s...none of my business.”

Clarke sets the plate aside, which puts some space between them; she misses the proximity but this is probably safer anyway. “It’s all right, you can ask me anything.”

Lexa looks reluctant, folding her arms beneath her chest, but she actually opens her mouth. “I’m surprised that you...well. You’ve been married two years. I can’t believe you haven’t...that you’re not a mother by now.” Clarke’s brows shoot up to her hairline before she manages to control her reaction; Lexa is looking away so didn’t notice anyway. “I know you’ve never wanted children but, I don’t know. I figured you would have changed your mind. It’s...expected, after all.”

“Well…” Clarke looks down. “My mother has certainly been in high demand of it, but, um. Finn is...” She clears her throat, uncomfortable suddenly. Damn it all, why did she start down this path? The last thing she wants to do is discuss this with Lexa of all people. She chalks it up to familiarity and habit, that Lexa can draw the truth from her with such ease. “We, um. We just haven’t been able to.”

“You haven’t been able to?”

“He...he has...he has trouble.”

Lexa tilts her head, brow furrowed. “Trouble?” she repeats when Clarke offers nothing more.

Clarke exhales, hating the blush that rises to her cheeks. “Yes. He has trouble...um. Performing.”

She winces, waiting for it. Waiting for the laughter, the taunting, as though there’s something wrong with her, something she doesn’t do right. That was the reaction she received from Trina and Harper alike when she individually confided in the two of them. 

Lexa squints. “Performing _what?”_

When Clarke just freezes, lips parted, and can do little more than stare as she frantically tries to think of a way to word this without sounding utterly crude, it seems to sink in. Comprehension has Lexa’s eyes widening, her cheeks tinting pink.

“Oh. That.” Her nose wrinkles and her lip curls in revulsion, and Clarke grimaces in sympathy; she’s certain Lexa doesn’t want to think of her intimate moments with her husband any more than Clarke wants to think about her and Costia— the mere thought running through her mind has rage boiling in her gut. She shifts her weight on her legs and clears her throat, struggling not to scowl, and tries to push it out of her mind.

“Yes. That.”

Her worries that Lexa might mock her fade away when Lexa instead lapses into thought, a curious expression on her face.

“What is he doing wrong?” Lexa asks.

Clarke blinks. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I mean how is he not performing well?”

“Um.” Clarke chews on the inside of her lip, wondering exactly how in detail she’s meant to go here. “It’s just...sometimes, his...um. He doesn’t rise, even when I have my hands on it—”

“Okay,” Lexa interjects, voice somewhat loud and snappish. “That’s not what I meant.”

Clarke scowls at her, haughty and ruffled in her embarrassment. “Well what did you mean?”

“I meant what does he do before? The circumstances around the problem. Is he attempting to—is he trying to—” Lexa cuts off, face pinched and frustrated, clearly every bit as uncomfortable as Clarke is with this conversation. “Is he trying to bed you late at night, after a long day of work? Is he drunk?”

“It depends,” Clarke says, off-footed by this line of questioning. “What does this matter?”

“Because if he’s exhausted or inebriated that can affect it,” says Lexa impatiently. “That could be why, some men struggle to—”

“How do you know all this?” Clarke cuts across her, eying her suspiciously, jaw clenched.

“Anya.” Lexa waves dismissively. “She’s a close friend I’ve made in Sankru. She’s had intimate relationships with other men aside from her late husband. It doesn’t matter. The point is, those are common reasons men may find...trouble, as you said.”

“That’s not his trouble. He rarely drinks. I don’t know, I suppose he does seem tired often.” Clarke shrugs somewhat helplessly. “Perhaps the trouble is simply me.”

“You?” said Lexa sharply, eyes flashing to meet Clarke’s with a frown. “Why would you be the trouble?”

“I don’t know.” Clarke looks down, annoyed with her own mortification and unable to help the way Trina and Harper’s comments drift into her head. Eyes glittering with mirth, Trina had claimed men rarely ever had such problems and suggested Clarke was simply not attractive enough to pique his attention; Harper had merely looked at her in pity, which was even worse. Clarke sighs and echoes Trina’s words. “Perhaps I’m not enough to hold his attention.”

An uncomfortable, prickly silence follows her words. Lexa looks at her with mingled shock and anger, and Clarke almost feels ashamed. 

“You _must_ be jesting.” Lexa utters, voice hard. Clarke averts her gaze, her cheeks and the back of her neck burning. “Clarke. Are you jesting?”

“What about this situation strikes you as jest-worthy?” Clarke finally snaps.

“Quite literally everything about it, actually.” When Clarke’s heated glare snaps up onto her, Lexa stares right back, intense and just as heated. “Most particularly the fact that you’re foolish enough to believe a world exists where you could be not enough. It’s simply not possible, Clarke.” Clarke swallows, averting her gaze again, a much more pleasant heat creeping over her at Lexa’s praise. “The fact that your husband is useless says nothing about you and everything about him.”

If Clarke had half a brain, she might realize she should defend her husband right now. She doesn’t. All she does is stare at Lexa, at the intensity in her gaze and how anger is far more breathtaking on her features than it has a right to be on any person. Her mouth goes dry as a familiar heat stirs in the pit of her stomach and her heart flutters, thumps harder, at what it means. 

Lexa seems to take her lack of response as a dismissal, and grows even more irate at the assumption. “I’m serious,” Lexa growls, uncrossing her arms to march a few steps forward until hardly any space stands between them. She arches a brow. “Or are you forgetting I can personally attest to just how _attention-holding_ you are?"

Clarke’s stomach drops. Oh, God.

How could she ever forget? 

She doesn’t have the chance to defend herself before the memories flood over her. Lexa, pressing her against the wall, leg wedged firmly between Clarke’s own, bodies undulating together. The few times Clarke couldn’t resist the urge to revisit those memories, a hand between her leg, her lower lip caught between her teeth; she’d always done it home alone, when Finn was out with his friends or busy working, and the soft noises that slipped free from Clarke’s throat were lost in the silence of her empty house, but there had been one time when she’d been too desperate, too overcome with the longing and the recollections of late that she had to touch herself while Finn slept beside her; had to press her fist to her mouth to choke back her moan, to suffocate Lexa’s name on her lips before it could escape. 

Attention-holding. Lexa thinks Clarke is, but it’s quite the other way around. Lexa has held Clarke’s attention for most of her life, and even the past two years, when they were endless miles apart and Lexa somehow still managed to touch her, to consume her.

“You might be thinking of yourself,” Clarke murmurs, unable to prevent the dip of her eyes to Lexa’s lips, the way they linger there. She thinks Lexa notices, by the way they part ever so slightly. 

“I’m not. I’m thinking of you.”

The double meaning there could be to her words does not go unmissed by Clarke; it fills her with a sudden dizzying hope, so powerful her knees tremble below her. She looks at Lexa, at the way she stares back at her with meaning in her darkened eyes, and prays she is not wrong, that Lexa means what she thinks she does. That Clarke is not alone in this undying need, and Lexa has not moved on to let her wither alone in the ashes left behind. 

There’s one way to find out. It’s bold, but as Clarke looks at her, at the beautiful angles of her face, she knows some moments call for bold measures.

“Why don’t you remind me?”

Green eyes flit up to her, startled and questioning, and darken further still when Clarke just looks back steadily. When Lexa is quiet and makes no move, Clarke arches a brow. “Or have you forgotten after all?”

Lexa’s expression tightens, a muscle jumping above her jaw, but she manages to aim the ghost of a cool smirk Clarke’s way. “No one could forget how much you enjoyed it.”

Clarke did not expect that, and very nearly chokes on air, spluttering, her face on fire. _“Lexa!”_

It seems as though Lexa takes enjoyment in shocking her. She looks far too satisfied as she leans back, aims a lazy crooked smile at her that Clarke is ashamed to admit she can feel pulsing down low. 

“What? It’s the truth.”

“You act as though you didn’t enjoy it just as much,” Clarke snaps, competitiveness getting the better of her. Lexa is the one to choke now, eyes widening at Clarke’s words. “And I felt the proof of that.”

“And I felt your proof just as well.”

Clarke cannot bear the look Lexa gives her; smug, superior. _Indifferent._ In the past, perhaps such a look would have had her heart racing for entirely different reasons. Right now all she can think is that Lexa has felt that proof with someone else now, too. 

“I’m surprised you remember,” says Clarke coldly, because she cannot resist, “and your recollections of _Costia_ haven’t overtaken your memories of me.”

Lexa’s face clouds with a strange mixture of emotions; something shadowy that only just flickers across; guilt, perhaps. It disappears as quickly as it comes, clouded over by a stormy anger.“I’m sure your memories of me have been overtaken too. With memories of your beloved _Finn_ instead,” she spits his name like a curse, and then her face screws up as though she’s aware how much vitriol she’s spewing. She turns away, but it doesn’t stop Clarke hearing what she mutters under her breath. “All two minutes of them, by the sounds of it.”

“Oh-ho!” Clarke furiously gapes at her, not altogether astonished Lexa would resort to a blow so below the belt. “How mature.”

Lexa shrugs, sullen and angry as she looks away. “Just as mature as it was for you to bring up Costia in the first place.”

“It slipped out,” Clarke says, irate and embarrassed. “Believe me, I didn’t intend to discuss her. If I wanted to bore myself there are other things I could be attending to right now.”

“Like your husband?”

Clarke snarls. “Stop it! You barely know him!”

They’re so close, suddenly. Standing their ground, furious, so close their chests are nearly brushing together.

“You don’t know Costia at all,” Lexa points out. 

“I know enough to know I don’t like hearing anything about her.”

Lexa leans closer, face so impassive while her eyes are blazing. “Why don’t you like hearing about Costia, Clarke?”

“Because you’re _mine!”_ Clarke cries.

The outburst is loud and ferocious, and Clarke regrets it almost as soon as it leaves her lips; it’s telling. It’s so telling, and it’s so wrong. Clarke is a married woman. She has no right to say such things. No right to love Lexa with such possession, especially when she pushed her away.

But then everything stops. Because the moment those words leave her lips, Lexa cups the back of Clarke’s neck and crashes their lips together.

Two years. Two years since they last kissed, and it seems Clarke’s body has not forgotten a moment of it, the imprint of Lexa’s lips on her. Lexa kisses her and it tastes like _home_.

She winds her arms around Lexa’s waist, bringing her close, until she can feel Lexa’s heart striking against her own. She parts her lips, sucking Lexa’s very breath into her lungs, and tastes the hitch when she sweeps her tongue along the plump fill of her bottom lip. Lexa grants entrance at once, and they both exhale shaky breaths as their tongues meet, bodies pressing even closer together until their limbs are so tangled they cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lexa breathes, voice trembling, and that mere word dropping from Lexa’s lips has Clarke’s stomach entirely bottoming out, heat rippling over her— she rarely ever heard Lexa curse like that, and the fact that she’s been driven to it from _this?_ Clarke has to hear it again.

She pulls at Lexa, desperate to be closer though it has to be impossible. Still she tries, pulling and stumbling back, and it’s not until Lexa has her crowded against the wall that Clarke realises she may have been unconsciously tracing their steps from two years ago. Her legs spread automatically, making room for Lexa’s thigh to slide between them, and she swallows a desperate moan as Lexa presses against her. 

She wants it again, more than anything she’s ever wanted before. She wants the pressure of Lexa against her, grinding. She wants to fall apart on her again. She wants Lexa to come apart on her leg again too, wants to hear her panting, feel her heat. She _wants_.

But it seems Lexa has other plans.

Clarke’s heart stutters, her stomach lurching, when she feels fingertips at her knee, sliding just beneath the hem of her dress, inching up her thigh. _Yes_ , Clarke thinks as she sucks in a shocked and desperately eager breath. That’s what she needs. Grinding again is not enough, she wants to feel Lexa’s touch on her bare skin. She _needs_ it.

She hastily reaches down, fumbles to lift the bottom of her dress, bunching it up so she can reach underneath and shove at her bloomers. Lexa’s hunger is intensified at watching Clarke’s movements, and she hurries to help Clarke along, tugging the bloomers down to her mid-thigh before impatiently bypassing them. A moan rumbles up Clarke’s throat at the feeling of Lexa’s fingertips grazing her inner thigh, her hand gripping at Lexa’s shoulder, flexing and splaying open only to dig in tighter in wordless encouragement as Lexa drifts higher. Still, even with that encouragement, Lexa slows, hesitates. Clarke’s eyes fly open, beseeching.

“Please,” she begs, and Lexa licks her lips, gaze roaming over Clarke with more intensity than Clarke has ever known, pupils eating away the thin rings of green. 

“Please what?” Lexa’s voice is low, husky; Clarke has never heard it quite that way. It puts another ache low in her belly, more fire burning between her legs. 

“Touch me.” Clarke’s voice catches, cracks, as full lips graze her throat.

The room is silent with their held breath, Clarke’s heart pounding against her rib cage as Lexa slowly leans in, the tip of her nose dragging along the column of Clarke’s throat. Clarke’s eyes are already rolling into the back of her head by the time Lexa’s lips brush her ear, overwhelmed with the sensation of Lexa’s warm breath on her flushed skin.

“Where?”

Oh, God. The callback to two years ago is too much. Clarke shudders in her arms, squeezing her thighs and gripping Lexa’s hips between them, canting forward, desperate for friction. Lexa maintains some semblance of control, her hands warningly squeezing Clarke’s waist, holding her in place.

“Where, Clarke?” She repeats, her voice soft and low in Clarke’s ear; it has her shuddering again, bucking even harder. “Tell me where you want me to touch you.”

Clarke loses her patience, grasps one of Lexa’s wrists and shoves her hand between her legs. The quiet gasp Lexa sucks in is drowned out by the half moan, half whine Clarke makes in response to feeling Lexa cup her, the heel of her hand pressing against where she throbs and aches the most. “ _Everywhere_ ,” she breathes.

All the air leaves Clarke’s lungs when Lexa moves. Her fingertips glide through soft curls and down into wet heat. They both shudder.

“Clarke,” Lexa groans again, eyes closing, forehead tipping against Clarke’s. “God.”

“ _Lexa_ ,” Clarke breathes back, sucking in another gasp as Lexa explores her. 

It’s never felt this good. Nothing has. Clarke feels thoroughly dismantled as Lexa takes her time, dragging slow patterns through her folds. It’s amazing but at the same time it only fans the flames licking at the insides of Clarke’s body, has her uttering needy noises as she rocks her hips, arching into Lexa’s touch. _More_ , she wants to beg, but before she can voice anything Lexa is rubbing tight circles around her, and Clarke is throwing her head back against the wall, nails digging into Lexa’s shoulder, drawing a quiet hiss from her that Clarke promptly tastes, offering kisses in apology. 

Lexa’s tongue slides into her mouth the same time her finger dips down to hover over Clarke’s entrance, clearly waiting for permission.

“May I…?”

“Yes, yes, please. I want you inside me,” Clarke babbles, and Lexa groans again, head tipping down to rest on Clarke’s collarbone.

When Lexa’s fingers push inside her, it is as if it sucks all the air from the room. Clarke holds her breath as Lexa fills her, one and then two fingers sinking inside her. It feels so much better than anything else before. Especially when Lexa starts to move them, as her lips fix to the side of Clarke’s neck. Especially when Lexa hooks them, rubbing against some spot inside her that feels as though it is going to end her. 

“God, Clarke,” Lexa says hoarsely, and Clarke barely manages to crack her eyes open to see Lexa watching her closely, awed, absorbing every single move Clarke makes. “You feel so... _God_.” Overcome, Lexa drops her head, nose nuzzling into the crook of Clarke’s neck. Her whispers are muffled against her skin. “I’ve thought of this. Imagined how you’d feel around my fingers. But it doesn’t compare to reality.” Lexa exhales a shuddery breath as her fingers spread inside her, and Clarke’s breath hitches into a whine as she’s stretched, Lexa’s long fingers stroking her inner walls. “Being inside you like this...I feel like I’m losing my mind.” Her voice trails off and Clarke only catches a few more comprehensible words, such as _tight_ and _wet_. Clarke’s moans grow louder as she’s swept up in the desire raging through her, in the arousal she’s drowning in. 

Then everything gets faster, and harder, and Clarke belatedly realises she’s been begging for it. Lexa sucks bruising kisses along her throat as she moves against her, deep, toe-curling thrusts that would have long had Clarke falling to the floor if it weren’t for Lexa pinning her up against the wall. One of Clarke’s arms is above her head, nails clawing, scrabbling against the wall; the other continues digging into Lexa’s shoulder, feeling each flex of muscle as she slams into her. 

There’s no time to think about how wrong this is, not when the pressure is growing inside her, a hot, insistent building that is not entirely unfamiliar; it feels like the other times, when she touched herself and when Lexa had her against a wall two years ago, thigh nestled firmly between her legs, except this is exponentially stronger. Clarke squirms, grinding down to meet Lexa’s thrusts, desperate and confused. She needs to reach the top of this mountain. She needs to— she needs to—

“Mine,” Lexa pants into the crook of Clarke’s neck; she leans back, and Clarke opens her eyes to see Lexa watching her, dark eyes at half-mast. There’s a flush high up on her cheekbones, and she looks at Clarke as though she could very well devour her whole. Lexa maintains eye contact as she gives a particularly hard thrust, emphasizing the next words she nearly growls. “You’re _mine.”_

“Oh,” Clarke’s gasp cuts off as her breath catches. There’s a tightening in every part of her; Lexa’s thrusts grow shorter, more shallow, as she finds difficulty in moving with Clarke clenching her so tightly. Lexa extends her thumb, and it rubs against her as she thrusts. Clarke begins to shake.

She _is_ hers. Every part of her. She belongs to Lexa. She always has. And now Lexa is here, inside her, and Clarke is lost with it.

“Oh God,” she chokes, eyes slamming shut and body lurching forward. She barely hears the pained hiss Lexa lets out in response to Clarke burying her teeth in Lexa’s shoulder in order to muffle the wail trying to tear from her throat. She has launched from the mountain straight into the stars. The galaxy ripples around her, flooding her body, flooding Lexa’s hand. Then it fades, and Clarke melts. 

She slumps down so abruptly Lexa loses her grip and has no choice but to lower down to the floor with her, fingers still buried inside her. For a few careful moments they remain like that, Clarke slumped on the floor with her back to the wall as she catches her breath; Lexa crouched beside, fingers still crooked inside her. It inexplicably reminds Clarke of the way Lexa would keep her fingers hooked in her books when she finished them, loathe to leave the comfort and safety of their world entirely, and she wonders if Lexa feels the same way about her. 

But eventually, it ends. Clarke whimpers as Lexa pulls her fingers free.

“Hey, hey,” Lexa says softly, nearly as breathless as Clarke as she unwinds her arm from around Clarke’s waist and gently cups her face, thumb stroking across the curve of Clarke’s cheek. “Are you okay?”

Clarke blinks up at her, dazed, and can’t help the dopey grin that spreads across her face. “I’m perfect.”

Lexa softens, her own smile creeping up her face, and for a moment, everything is gold and shining, bright with potential.

But then Lexa’s expression utterly changes, and Clarke watches it as though in slow motion. It starts with her eyes. The soft adoration fades like a shadow that was never there, and Clarke can scarcely begin to keep up with the emotions that filter through afterwards. Horror, namely, and it has Clarke’s heart bypassing a slow sinking to instead thud directly at her feet. Lexa’s lips press together, so firmly they turn white before they thin, and turn down at the corners. Her brow creases. Her cheeks pale. And Clarke knows this won’t be good. 

Lexa’s gaze shifts down and Clarke follows it. She blushes when she spots Lexa’s hand, two fingers glistening with the proof of Clarke’s ardour. Lexa stares at her own hand and then abruptly clenches it into a fist and propels to her feet.

“This was— that was— this was a mistake,” she stammers, shaking her head, her hair tumbling over her shoulder. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

“Lexa,” Clarke says, because she doesn’t know what else to say. She struggles to her feet, leaning against the wall for support when her weak legs threaten to buckle beneath her. 

Lexa is still shaking her head, panic writ on her face as she backs away towards the window, refusing to look at Clarke. ”I must go.”

“No, wait!” Clarke says, alarmed, taking a few shaky steps forward, hand outstretched. Lexa freezes and doesn’t move towards her, but she also doesn’t move any further towards the door, so Clarke considers it a win. “Wait a moment, just— just a moment, please,” she implores, blushing furiously as she hastily pulls her bloomers up her legs and readjusts her dress, though she’s sure she’s trying in vain to make herself decent and presentable; her hair has fallen out of it’s chignon and she’s certain it must be wild right now, if Lexa’s own hair is any indication. She hastily pulls it back up into another quick chignon. “Let me think for a minute.” 

“What is there to think about?” Lexa says, voice thick but quiet. “You lied to me.”

“What?” Clarke looks at her, stricken. Lied? She hasn’t lied about anything. She wouldn’t lie to Lexa.

Lexa just looks at her, jaw set, visibly hardening her features to avoid showing her weakness. “What you said. Before we...before.”

It takes a second for it to click. Clarke’s heart throbs painfully.

_“Why don’t you like hearing about Costia, Clarke?”_

_“Because you’re mine!”_

Clarke swallows thickly. “I didn’t lie. I...Lexa. It’s always been you.” Her heart thumps, body warming; she feels so vulnerable right now, standing before Lexa with a bleeding heart. “You know it’s always been you.”

But Lexa doesn’t look convinced. “Perhaps you said that merely to get a reaction.”

Clarke gapes, her stomach turning unpleasantly. She flushes with embarrassment and indignation. “Are you jesting? You were the one who kissed me! How was I to know you’d do that?”

“Because you know me. Just as I’m sure you knew I’d find a reason to come visit you tonight.” 

“Lexa, I swear I had no idea. I—” _I thought you hated me._ “I didn’t know if I would ever even see you again, let alone that you’d come here and that we’d—that we’d do _that_.” Lexa’s last words suddenly sink in, and Clarke’s expression tightens. “From the way it sounds, you were the one who had these intentions, not me.”

“I had no such intentions,” Lexa says, voice hard. “I just...I came to say goodbye.” She looks away. “We have history. It felt wrong for that to be the last time we ever saw each other.”

“We have _history_ _?”_ Clarke scoffs. “We’ve been best friends since we were children, and you’re simply boiling that down to generic _history?”_ When Lexa doesn’t respond, Clarke’s anger grows. Beneath it, she knows, there’s a grief she isn’t prepared to deal with; right now, it’s easier to focus on the anger. “You know what? I may be a liar, Lexa, but you’re a hypocrite.”

Lexa’s gaze finally snaps up to her at the words, but then she’s blinking in surprise, taking a step back when Clarke takes a step forward. 

“You’re acting as if you merely came by to offer a polite goodbye but you didn’t. You brought my favourite cake. You kissed me. You—you touched me. Your whole life you’ve been haunted by your father’s demands, you’ve tried to behave as though having feelings makes you weak yet you’ve never been able to run from them. You found me. You found _Costia_ ,” she says bitterly. “You feel more deeply than anyone I know. And you look at me, even now, and I _know_ you still feel.” Lexa’s breath hitches as Clarke backs her against the window pane; Lexa reaches behind herself to grip it, holding on while she looks at Clarke and swallows thickly. Clarke stares right back, lets the fury pound in her bones. “You cannot act as if the history we have is as casual as the business one has with— with their banker, or the butcher down the road. You looked at me once and spilled your heart to me. You promised it was forever, and I did the same, and I meant it. Perhaps what I said was indeed a lie without knowing, because if you don’t want to be then fine, I suppose you’re not mine. But _you_ didn’t lie. I am yours. Always.”

The words ring in the silence.

“Then it’s a shame you belong to someone else,” Lexa says with finality, her voice unsteady. Clarke just stares at her, chin wobbling, body trembling. Lexa takes her silence as the cowardly answer it is and looks away as she gives a jerky shrug. “You were the one who decided to marry him.”

Those words, and not the accusation suffusing them but the grief behind them, has Clarke feel as though she’s fraying apart at the seams. “I was forced to marry Finn, I had no choice!” she says, voice rising. _“You_ did! 

Lexa looks pained, gaze snapping back onto Clarke. “You truly blame me for trying to move on from you? You consider it a betrayal?”

Clarke swallows down the sob that wants to claw up her throat. _Yes_ , she thinks. “No,” she says stubbornly. 

Something in Lexa’s expression shifts, like a wall crumbling, and she stands before Clarke looking more lost than she’s ever seen her, clasping her own arms as though trying to physically hold herself together. “Because that’s what it felt like to me.” Clarke blinks, shock twisting through her, but scrambles not to show it; scrambles to hold onto her anger, because that feels far safer. “Every touch, every kiss...I was _always_ thinking of you. Even when I tried my hardest not to.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Clarke flares up at once. “You still _touched_ her.” 

The words ring in the silence that follows. Clarke takes only a moment to glare, anguished and devastated, into Lexa’s stricken eyes, before shame creeps up her spine. Clarke turns away after the outburst, smoothing down her hair with a shaky hand, tucking the loose tendrils that escaped the chignon back in. She still can’t bear to turn and face Lexa as she says quietly, “I’m sorry. I know I’ve no right to be angry at you. Nor do I have a claim on you.”

“But you do.”

The words are so quiet Clarke could half believe she imagined them. She swallows thickly, blinks back the sudden stinging in her eyes, her head bowed. She can’t bring herself to look at Lexa, knows she won’t be able to handle it if she tries. 

“I shouldn’t. I gave that up when I—when I pushed you away.”

“Do you regret it?”

Clarke swallows thickly. It was the worst mistake of her life. But she cannot say that. If she says that, it’s an admission—it’s realizing she made a choice simply because her parents and society expected it, and that it was a mistake.

“I regret hurting you,” she says, even while inside she screams with _I regret it, I regret all of it, I have only ever wanted you._ “I never wanted to do that. All I’ve ever wanted is to see you happy.”

“You should see that every time you look at me, Clarke.” When Clarke looks up at her, her heart just aches. Lexa looks back at her with quiet, sad eyes, her face solemn. 

Clarke can’t help the tear that escapes the corner of her eye. She shakes her head slowly, if only to give her a moment to find her voice, thick and wavering, and bows her head, unable to bear looking at Lexa even a moment longer. “You don’t look happy when I look at you now.”

She’s startled when fingertips suddenly brush across her face. Looks up to see Lexa standing before her, her own eyes bright. Lexa’s face is creased with sorrow as she cups Clarke’s face, gently wiping her thumbs through the tear tracks. “I told you it would ruin everything.

“Perhaps I should have listened to you.”

“So you do regret it.”

Clarke’s fingers wrap loosely around Lexa’s wrist, stilling her. Her wedding ring weighs heavily on her third finger, glinting in the candlelight. “I _don’t_ regret _you_ ,” she says fiercely, voice regaining its strength. “Nor do I regret falling in love with you. The only thing I regret is not leaving with you when we were children.”

Lexa’s lips curve with the ghost of a sad, bitter smile that does not reach her eyes. “My father would have found us.”

“I would have protected you from him,” Clarke says obstinately. 

Lexa grows serious again, just staring at Clarke for a moment, her hands still on her face; Clarke strokes her thumb across Lexa’s wrist in a mindless soothing circle. “I thought about that often, you know. Asking you to run away with me.” Her voice is low; this is a confession, Clarke knows. One that has her heart further fissuring. “I think my father knew. Not the nature of my feelings for you, but how deeply I cared for you, and how much I loathed the idea of the traditional life he had planned for me. He told me so many times that...that I was just as bad an influence on you as you were for me. That I was...dragging you down, and it was cruel and selfish of me to do so...that if I truly cared for you then I would leave you alone to live the life you were meant to, the life you deserved.”

Clarke shakes her head at once, revulsion lurching in her stomach. “No. _No_ , Lexa. That is— that’s all so _wrong_. You don’t drag me down, you lift me up. I swear it.” Lexa still doesn’t look convinced, her head bowed and shame writ all over her face. Clarke realises with a dawning sense of horror that there are glistening tears clinging like pearl drops at the ends of Lexa’s long lashes, and she clutches at her face to clumsily wipe at them, desperate and panicked. “Oh, no, Lex. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry, darling.” Clarke leans across the scant inches between them, brushing a kiss across Lexa’s cheek; her lips come away wet with her tears. 

Lexa trembles in her arms and the shattered remains of Clarke’s heart breaks into even smaller pieces. Guilt rages inside her as she stands there clutching Lexa, kissing her cheeks softly, nuzzling her, lips willing her to feel her tender ardency, to know Clarke could do this forever.

Eventually Lexa’s tears run dry, but Clarke is still wracked with shame, and she cannot bear it any longer.

“I am so sorry,” Clarke says, her voice strained. “Lexa, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m just—I’m _sorry_.”

“You did what was best for you,” Lexa tells her, soft and gentle, and Clarke could agree. She could let it go.

But as stubborn as Clarke is, she’s not that cruel. 

“No. I did what was best for my people. For my parents. It was what they wanted but you know it was never my dream.” Clarke shakes her head, breath hitching with the threat of a sob; she uses the heel of her hand to scrub at her tears until Lexa nudges her hand away and resumes her own gentle brushing. “I’m so _tired_ of this life, Lexa. You are all I want and I crave you every waking moment. I crave your kind heart, your wit, your everything. You are _everything_ to me. Life is precious and I…” She takes a deep breath and looks helplessly at Lexa, beseeching. “I don’t want to spend another moment in want of you. I _love_ you. I am hopelessly, endlessly in love with you. And I know I always will be.”

Lexa stares at her for a long moment, the mingled shock and awe in her blank face swelling Clarke’s heart with hope. 

“Lexa, _say something,”_ Clarke begs, her voice breaking and her fingers digging into the fabric of Lexa’s dress over her shoulders.

Lexa doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. Instead her hands shift from holding Clarke’s face to cupping the back of her neck, and Clarke blinks in surprise, her heart skipping and her stomach bottoming out as she realises Lexa’s intentions a split second before it happens.

She kisses her again.

As Clarke’s eyes flutter shut upon the warm pressure to her mouth, all she can think again is: _home_. It feels like coming home.

Clarke feels her heart reconstruct with each whisper of their lips’ movements. It takes little time at all for that gentleness to shift, giving way to the desperation that swells within her. Clarke turns them so she can walk Lexa backwards across the room, kissing her all the while. She tugs at the ties to Lexa’s dress, manages to claw it down to expose her bare shoulders. Lexa’s quiet gasps fill the room when Clarke drops down to press open-mouthed kisses along the slope of her shoulder, up to suck over her thrashing pulse. The noises have Clarke’s stomach flipping, have her hands dropping to the bottom of Lexa’s dress, but then the back of Lexa’s knees hit the bed and she sits on the edge of the mattress, Clarke standing before her, and they both still. Clarke’s heart thunders in her chest, her breath caught in her lungs; there is something so holy and sacred about the way they face each other, the way Lexa stares up at her with wide, dark eyes, her lips parted. She looks how Clarke feels: eager, wanting, _reverential_. 

_In love._

Clarke licks her lips, her throat tight, her hands trembling just as slightly as Lexa’s bottom lip. Lexa has already been inside her but this moment is slow and significant. This is Lexa, her best friend, the girl she’s loved longer than she can remember, and Clarke is aching at the very real fact that she might be undressing her in just a moment.

When she manages to find her words, her voice is raspy and soft. “May I…?” she asks, pointedly tugging at the bottom of Lexa’s dress.

Lexa nods and stands at once, and the two of them set to untying and pulling off her dress. The undergarments are quickly removed too, bloomers shoved down Lexa’s long legs. Soon enough she stands naked before Clarke save for a shining golden necklace around her neck Clarke has never seen before, though she is a bit distracted right now to pay it much attention. Clarke’s pulse thunders in her ears as her gaze roams the beautiful expanse of soft curves and hard edges before her. Jesus. Lexa is absolutely beautiful. 

“You’re…” She intends to tell her, but the sight before her has the words stalling in her throat. She shakes her head to clear it, and her gaze flicks up to meet Lexa’s again. She doesn’t look unnerved or shy. She looks at Clarke with so much hunger in her dark eyes that Clarke can scarcely believe she’s not set aflame from it. 

She lurches forward, their lips colliding again. Licks into Lexa’s mouth as she steers her down onto the bed and crawls over her. She feels nimble fingers working at the laces to her dress, and then she’s shrugging it off as Lexa helps to peel it off her. She takes a moment to stand, undressing until all their clothes lay scattered on the floor and Clarke stands before Lexa utterly bare. It’s such a stark contrast to how she felt the first time she was ever completely naked in front of another person, on her wedding night. She doesn’t feel uncertain and sick with dread now. Dark green eyes rove over her, pupils blown with hunger, and Lexa seems to be frozen in place, slack-jawed and speechless. Clarke takes a deep breath, confidence swelling within her. Her legs are shaky beneath her from Lexa touching her earlier, but she stands tall. She feels beautiful, wanted. Loved.

She climbs atop Lexa on the bed, and sighs into the electric heat between their lips when their bodies press together and soft hands explore her, sliding along the length of her back, the curves of her waist. Can’t resist grinding into Lexa just a little when those hands grip her behind and squeeze. Those long legs part so Clarke can nestle down between the warmth of Lexa’s thighs, and they both shiver at the sensation, Clarke pushing herself up, hands on either sides of Lexa’s shoulders, which puts her chest at eye level with Lexa, and has Lexa stilling beneath her.

“You’re _gorgeous_ ,” Lexa breathes, wide eyes fixated on Clarke’s breasts. She gently cups them in her hands, and Clarke bites back a moan when thumbs pass over her nipples, coaxing them into stiff peaks. “Stunning,” Lexa whispers, before she tips her head up and closes a mouth over one nipple, and then Clarke isn’t nearly as successful in suppressing her moan. The sound bolsters Lexa on, tongue circling before she sucks, and Clarke shudders above her, arms nearly giving out, wetness pooling at the apex of thighs she squeezes together in search of relief. 

“ _You_ are beautiful,” Clarke says breathlessly, casting an appreciative gaze over the length of Lexa’s body. She’s lean and slender, all sunkissed skin and curves more subtle than Clarke’s own. Her breasts are smaller, pert and firm, and fit perfectly in Clarke’s hands. She watches how Lexa’s forehead furrows and her mouth falls open for ragged breaths as Clarke dips her head to suck a nipple into her own mouth. It’s so soft, before it hardens against her tongue. God. Clarke wants _more_ , and judging by the way Lexa’s body is straining beneath her, she wants more too. Clarke takes a deep breath, body vibrating with excitement, and slowly lowers a hand.

It’s an incredible feeling, one Clarke never expected. She trails her fingertips down the length of Lexa’s flat stomach, abdominal muscles quivering, leaving gooseflesh in her wake. She watches closely, avidly, drinking Lexa in; how her lashes flutter and her forehead knits as she presses her lips together and tips her head back. How her breath hitches, catches, panting soft and low as Clarke touches her. The way her body trembles, sways, as though she’s barely restraining herself from begging for Clarke’s touch to drift elsewhere.

It’s intoxicating, the power Clarke holds right now. This feels otherworldly. Like she’s praying at the altar, worshipping, and Lexa is the shrine.

The only problem is that Clarke doesn’t know what she’s doing. 

She hesitates, throat tight with her sudden uncertainty. It isn’t until the third or fourth circle she traces over Lexa’s hip that Lexa’s eyes open, and she looks questioningly at Clarke, breathless.

“I’ve never…” Clarke pauses, clears her throat. Lexa already knows that. She tries a different tactic, tracing another circle over Lexa’s skin with the tips of her fingers. “Can you show me?” she whispers.

Lexa blinks at her before slowly nodding, licking her lips, her half-mast eyes gradually brightening. Clarke realises a split second later it’s with ideas, because suddenly Lexa is flipping them over, Clarke falling onto her back on the mattress with a quiet huff that’s promptly sharply inhaled again when Lexa kisses her neck, then her sternum, then her ribs, moving lower with intent. 

“I can show you so many things,” Lexa murmurs against Clarke’s quivering stomach.

When she presses a kiss lower, just over her hip bone, Clarke’s heart jumps into her throat, and she falters, snapping her legs shut tight. “Um, wait, Lexa—”

Lexa draws away at once and despite her shock, Clarke nearly seizes her by the hair and drags her back. As it is, Lexa only looks up at her, every line of her face focused and determined.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” she promises.

She’s utterly serious. Clarke can see that. She tries to swallow but finds the lump in her throat difficult to get around. She stares at Lexa, holds her verdant gaze while her heart skips wildly within her heaving chest, and heat churns down south. Her entire body vibrates like she’s moments away from exploding, and Lexa glances up and down the length of it before her eyes snap to Clarke’s in concern, but she relaxes when she absorbs the way Clarke looks at her with such hunger. Clarke can see it reflected in Lexa’s own countenance, and it has the need swelling even more insistently within her, the evidence dripping down the insides of her thighs. 

She bites her bottom lip as she does what she wanted to, and threads her fingers through Lexa’s hair. Gently at first, grip growing firmer when Lexa’s lashes flutter at the sensation; when Lexa’s eyes fly open, they’re darker than Clarke has ever seen them.

She doesn’t give her a chance to speak again, just tugs insistently at her curls, and Lexa lowers her head, hands gently cupping Clarke’s thighs to part her legs. 

Clarke has never experienced this before. Finn never did this. Truthfully Clarke never even imagined this was a possibility; Harper and Trina had never mentioned their husbands doing such things to them. Something about this must be deviant, and Clarke suspects a part of herself should be mortified at this. But she’s not. All she feels is hopelessly aroused and entirely lost with the need raging through her body. She’s so wet she can feel it dripping along the insides of her thighs, and knowing Lexa is so close to that is more thrilling than anything has a right to be. She feels warm breath puff over the most intimate part of her body and Clarke is already panting, her chest heaving, shuddering with want. It aches in her, all the way to her bones. 

Lexa’s tongue on her feels like nothing she could have ever described. Clarke cries out, struggling to keep it as quiet as possible, as Lexa explores her, tongue swirling and lighting up every single nerve ending on Clarke’s body. It’s the best thing Clarke has ever felt in her entire life. It’s so pleasurable she’s not certain how she’s to maintain any semblance of a normal life after this, knowing she could be experiencing this instead. She’s drowning in pleasure and she never wants it to end. 

“I’ve wanted to taste you for so long,” Lexa whispers into the hottest, wettest part of her; Clarke bites back a moan. 

Clarke realises how oblivious she is. How she was wrecked with longing for Lexa for so long but never quite understood what it meant, and that she thought and acted as if she were the only one who felt it with this intensity. Yet Lexa felt the same, only even more keenly aware of what the feelings meant. Clarke only knew what it was to be consumed by her want, without any specifics of how to address it; Lexa knew enough to crave this most forbidden taste of her, to touch her, to be inside her. And the idea of Lexa thinking of that—it gives new weight to all their memories. Clarke thinks back to every innocent exploration they took together—how Lexa pressed against her with their kisses, how she arched when Clarke first touched her breast—and wonders if Lexa had thought of this. Had imagined this back then.

The idea of it swamps her with overwhelming heat, has the pulse of desire in her stomach tightening, pulling. Lexa’s tongue laps against her and it hasn’t been very long but Clarke already finds herself at the precipice, both hands tightly tangled in Lexa’s wild brown curls scattered over Clarke’s stomach and thighs. Lexa plunges her tongue inside her before licking up the length of her and lapping at where she throbs and aches the most, and when Clarke looks down to see glowing green eyes watching her from between her legs, she flies off the edge harder than she ever has before.

She marvels at it. It’s nothing more than a brief moment, a flash of time, where nothing and everything simultaneously exists. For that instant, she is blind and deaf, nothing but the roaring of her heart in her ears and the blazing pressure behind her closed eyes, lights bursting behind the lids as that crackling, overwhelming rush floods over her body. It’s a tsunami within her, total and utter devastation, but when the tide recedes, she feels as though she is reborn, left limp and soaked on the shore. She twitches and slowly comes to, sprawled out spread-eagle on the bed, the pressure and warmth of Lexa’s hands on her thighs surely burning glowing handprints into her flushed skin.

Lexa lifts her head, her nose and chin shining with Clarke’s wetness. “You taste so lovely,” Lexa murmurs, lips brushing Clarke’s inner thigh. 

Even after what they just did, Lexa’s words bring a blush to her face. Particularly when Lexa begins shifting up, mapping a trail of kisses up Clarke’s body until she’s stretching out beside Clarke and capturing her lips. Clarke gives a throaty hum of appreciation, surprised to enjoy the taste of herself so much. It also makes her desperate to experience it for herself. She _needs_ to taste Lexa now.

Clarke feels as though her body has melted into the mattress, but she manages to heave herself up once she’s caught her breath. Lexa leans back when she does, propped up on one elbow, looking curiously at her. Her eyes widen when Clarke splays a hand on her chest and pushes her onto her back.

“My turn,” she murmurs into their kiss, biting and suckling at her bottom lip to taste Lexa’s hitched breath before moving, pressing another kiss to her neck, then her sternum, following a similar path Lexa had taken. 

“You needn’t,” Lexa begins, but she falls quiet with a hiss and a jump when Clarke pointedly bites her inner thigh. 

“Hush,” Clarke whispers, eyes closing as she breathes in the scent of Lexa’s arousal, heady and rich. “I want to. More than anything. Just…” She glances up at her, unnerved again suddenly. Perhaps she needs just a moment to gather her courage. She rises up again, leaning over Lexa to kiss her softly. “Tell me if I...do anything wrong. Just speak to me.”

She can hear the audible swallow Lexa takes. Their noses brush together as she opens her eyes to see Lexa staring at her, eyes so dark they’re very nearly black. 

“I won’t take very long,” Lexa admits breathlessly. Licks her lips, Clarke’s gaze dropping to watch the tip of her tongue move. 

She doesn’t want it to be over quickly. She wants this long and drawn out. She wants to take her time and watch Lexa fall apart slowly. Almost unconsciously, Clarke’s hand begins gravitating south.

“We’ll see about that,” she tells Lexa, pleasantly satisfied by the way Lexa’s eyes widen, darken, at the words. She wasn’t trying to be seductive, but she supposes it’s a happy coincidence if she is. Then Clarke stops thinking altogether as her hand reaches the soft curls at the juncture of Lexa’s thighs. 

Clarke bites hard at her bottom lip to keep in her quiet gasp as her fingers slide through soaked folds. She feels so soft and wet and warm. She wants—Clarke wants _more_.

The way she parts Lexa’s legs wider is instinctual; the way she drifts down to press warm kisses to her sternum and then both breasts is born of pure need. She kisses her rib cage, her tummy button, her hip bone...and then slides down onto her stomach to lay between Lexa’s legs. She’s nervous, hesitating, but dizzy with her hunger; she licks her lips, eyes on Lexa, who looks down at her with black eyes and quietly gathers Clarke’s hair atop her head, holding it for her. For a moment they merely regard one another, the air thick with heat. Lexa watches her, waiting, and Clarke can see the patience, the love in her eyes. She looks at her with the gentle assurance that this is not necessary; if Clarke wants to stop, it’s entirely okay.

But Clarke doesn’t want to stop.

Lexa’s eyes widen slightly as Clarke looks down again. She slides her hands up from Lexa’s knees to her thighs, and pushes her legs wider apart. Clarke loses her breath.

Clarke has never seen this part of a woman; it wasn’t as though she could contort her body into the position to get a good look at her own. She isn’t sure what she was expecting. The first time she saw a man’s— Finn’s— it had made her wrinkle her nose a bit. All human bodies are beautiful, her artist’s eye could appreciate that, and she had seen countless art and statues of naked men before, and perhaps that’s why seeing it in person felt rather...underwhelming.

But this? This is different. She feels like she’s been afforded a glimpse into something secret and sacred. Lexa’s legs part and...God. She’s beautiful, folds petaled open like a flower. Catches the light, glistening, wet. This is the most intimate part of her best friend, and Clarke is looking right at her. It’s strange and perfect.

“You’re gorgeous,” she breathes, eyes bright, tilting her head when she notes how Lexa jerks slightly, a whine caught in her throat at the sensation of Clarke’s breath fanning warm over her. 

Lexa is so soaked, and it gives Clarke a rush of confidence. All of this...for her. Emboldened, she scoots closer, breathing her in, head spinning with the scent. Slowly, Clarke extends her tongue and licks.

Her skin is as soft as velvet. She tastes similar to Clarke’s own taste. Tangy, sharp. It’s rich on her tongue. The idea that this is _Lexa_...that this is the intrinsic taste of her friend...it has Clarke throbbing between her legs all over again, desperate for another touch. But she wouldn’t stop this for anything. 

God. The control Clarke has right now. Each choice she makes has the ability to draw forth the best of reactions from Lexa. She licks through her and Lexa shudders. She laps at where she is stiff and swollen and Lexa gasps. She buries her tongue inside her, at the source of all that delicious wetness, and a low moan rumbles from Lexa’s throat, until Clarke curls and thrusts her tongue and that moan shifts higher until Lexa is practically keening, her back arching off the bed.

Initially Clarke tries her best to mirror the movements Lexa did on her, but soon enough she’s just moving instinctively, paying close attention to Lexa’s responses, and then even just moving at leisure, enjoying the taste and feel of Lexa on her tongue. Everything is hot and slippery and Clarke feels as though she’s drowning in the best of ways. 

“Is this— is this good?” Clarke murmurs into her— she’s never done this, after all, and she wants nothing more than to make Lexa feel every bit as wonderful as Lexa made her feel. She licks into her again, keenly absorbing the way Lexa gasps and shudders, even more so at the vibration of Clarke’s voice as she asks, “What do you like?”

She doesn’t anticipate the sudden moan that draws forth from Lexa, nor the way her hips cant, pushing herself up into Clarke’s face; Clarke jolts, taken aback, not having expected the lower portion of her face to suddenly become drenched with Lexa’s arousal.

Lexa’s eyes fly open at once, her brow knitting in concern as she stiffens. “Oh, God, I’m— I’m sorry,” she says in a rush. “Are you okay?”

Clarke blinks, licking her lips, her stomach lurching with desire as she tastes Lexa. She is so much better than okay. She can’t even wait to reassure Lexa before she whole-heartedly dives back in; Lexa seems to get the gist anyway, judging by the way her back arches as she moans again when Clarke buries her face in her. 

Lexa’s eyes are dark and bewildered as they look down at Clarke between her legs, like she didn’t expect this at all, like she’s confused about how good it is— Clarke swells with pride as she licks with renewed vigor. Lexa’s thighs tremble violently on either side of Clarke’s head, and when she glances up she can see the way Lexa’s abdominal muscles are clenching over and over again. Her hips judder before going still, and Lexa’s entire body seems to bow upward; Clarke is half convinced she is going to float off the mattress like the magical otherworldly being she must surely be.

Instead, Lexa begins moaning in earnest as her body quakes and she pulses against Clarke’s tongue, legs suddenly snapping shut over Clarke’s head. Clarke uses her hands to split them so she can hear the noises Lexa is making, and eagerly laps up all that floods into her mouth. She’s never felt so accomplished in her life as she is watching Lexa come down from her high, body twitching uncontrollably, before she weakly paws at Clarke’s head to stop her continuous licking.

“God,” Lexa whimpers, breath catching on half a sob. “You’re...you’re a quick learn.”

Clarke presses her smirk to Lexa’a belly. “I’d have thought you already knew that.”

She stills when she hears a sniffle, looking up at once. Lexa’s jaw is tight, and her head is turned, eyes shut and brow drawn. Clarke’s stomach flips unpleasantly; did she do something wrong?

“Lex?” she says tentatively. “Are you okay? What’s the matter?”

Her heart drops when she sees a tear escape Lexa’s eye and roll slowly over her sharp cheekbone. Clarke clutches at her legs, frozen in place. Her mind races. She doesn’t understand. Lexa had seemed to enjoy it. Why was she crying?

“I’m alright,” Lexa finally whispers, cracking open her glossy eyes to glance at Clarke, seemingly embarrassed. “It’s just— it was overwhelming.”

“But...good?” Clarke says, uncertain.

Lexa nods, throat dipping as she swallows. “So good, Clarke. I promise.”

Relief floods through Clarke. Lexa wasn’t lying about this, she would never break a promise. Clarke presses another kiss to her stomach, feeling it twitch beneath her lips; she kissed lower, at the damp crease of Lexa’s pelvis. Kisses lower still, unable to resist it, over the soft curls on Lexa’s mound and then her swollen flesh, though Lexa gasps and cranes away, too sensitive. Clarke draws back at once, pressing her lips together to hide her smile.

Lexa watches her with half lidded eyes as Clarke crawls up to hover over her face. Her gaze tracks a path from dark green eyes, to flushed cheeks, to kiss-bruised lips before she lowers down to capture them with her own. Lexa exhales a shuddery breath into Clarke’s mouth when she tastes herself on her tongue.

The kissing is soft only for a moment before it deepens, turns urgent again. Clarke wants more, and it’s not difficult to ascertain Lexa feels the same way, if the way she presses against her is any indication.

Clarke drags herself down the lithe length of Lexa’s body again, and wastes no time in letting her mouth meet the soaked heat awaiting her between Lexa’s legs again. After several passes of her tongue, she slides a hand up, and hovers a finger over Lexa’s entrance, waiting for Lexa’s nod and the roll of her hips before she pushes in. Her throat goes tight and her mouth goes dry at the sensation, the way Lexa clenches around her fingers. 

She begins slowly, in and out for a time before she remembers the way Lexa had hooked her fingers inside her and tries the same movement; the moment she crooks her fingers and presses against Lexa’s ridged inner walls, Lexa nearly arches off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from her throat. 

The way she sings Clarke’s name when she finally falls apart is like the sweetest music Clarke has ever heard, and has her pressing her own thighs together just for some alleviation of the need throbbing between them. She slowly pulls out and away, mindful this time of how sensitive Lexa is right after climax. 

“Jesus Christ,” Lexa croaks.

Clarke’s mouth curls into a smile that she presses to Lexa’s quivering thigh before resting her head atop it and taking a moment’s reprieve to just gaze at Lexa, basking in her beauty. She’s so breathtaking. 

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known,” Clarke says honestly, voice soft with reverence. 

Lexa deadpans her, though the effect is somewhat marred as she’s still catching her breath. “I presume you own a mirror, Clarke.”

“I do. It shows me nothing so beautiful as you,” Clarke smiles; there’s something familiar about the statement, and she suspects it’s something they’ve argued before in the past. It warms her heart even more. 

Lexa’s returning smile is soft, inviting, tinged with an unexpected shyness that has Clarke’s heart aching. Clarke’s smile broadens when Lexa’s hands drop to her arms, Lexa lifting Clarke up to kiss her tenderly. Their bodies twine together, sticky and damp, and all Clarke can smell and taste and feel is Lexa. She could live here, she thinks. Just surrounded by everything Lexa. 

They slip into something of a doze, Lexa’s head tucked beneath Clarke’s chin, nestled over her breast. It has been years since Clarke has known such peace.

But when Clarke wakes, it’s to an empty bed. Panic claws at her chest and for one wild moment she fears Lexa has left without even saying goodbye— but then Lexa quietly returns, having apparently gone to the loo, and Clarke should almost be embarrassed by the relieved smile that stretches across her face when Lexa slips back into bed with her. Clarke kisses her softly before darting off to do the same, and when she returns to bed she takes the plate that holds the last slice of cake with her.

She and Lexa lie curled up on their sides, the duvet tangled around their bodies. They have a conversation about any and everything, from Gustus’s success at the fair and how Lexa pushed for his invitation to the latest book they each read, and the room is filled with their quiet murmurs and soft laughter as they occasionally feed one another pinches of cake, and exchange sweet kisses where they playfully lick at the fallen crumbs on one another’s lips. It’s the most delicious the pound cake has ever tasted.

They lounge curled up closely together, and the conversation only reaches a lull when Lexa grasps the hand Clarke had lifted up to card her fingers through Lexa’s wild curls, and then stills, a somber shadow entering her green eyes as they alight upon the ring glinting on Clarke’s finger.

Clarke doesn’t hesitate. She twists the wedding ring off her finger and throws it somewhere; she doesn’t pay attention to where it lands. She doesn’t care, and she’s too focused on the slow broadening of Lexa’s smile. Then her own gaze drops, catching on the only piece of jewelry Lexa adorns, the golden chain resting over the top of her chest.

“It’s lovely,” Clarke says, tracing her finger over the curve of the golden droplet. 

Lexa is quiet for a beat. “Thank you. It was a gift...from Costia.”

Now Clarke pauses, not quite quick enough to hide the way her lips twist nor remember to be more casual about the way she yanks her hand back from the necklace as though it scalded her. Lexa looks at her for a moment before raising her hand.

Lexa tugs the necklace hard enough to break the chain, and Clarke stills, knows Lexa did that as a gesture more than anything. She looks expectantly at Clarke, a slight quirk to her lips as she offers her the broken chain. She bursts into laughter when Clarke snatches it from her hand and blindly flings it across the room; it hits a wall with a sharp clink and falls somewhere neither of them pay attention to, Clarke yanking Lexa forward by the back of her neck to smash their lips together, swallowing the rest of her laughter.

They eventually break apart for air, and Clarke exhales a shaky breath, her heart swollen with affection and adoration.

“I don’t know if anyone could ever love someone as much as I love you.”

Lexa stares, so careful and close, and then softens again, lips curving. “Wrong again. I love you just the same, if not more so.”

“Impossible.”

“It’s true.”

“Equal,” Clarke whispers, forehead tipping forward to rest against Lexa’s. “Let it be equal.”

Lexa nods, the movement nudging their noses together, and echoes Clarke’s word.

“Equal, then.”

They remain like that for a moment, simply breathing one another in. Until the heat simmering in Clarke’s body grows and grows, her heart thundering in her chest and her stomach at risk of floating away for all the butterflies caught in it. She aches with longing, with need.

“Lexa,” she murmurs, her voice lower, strained. She hears Lexa swallow. 

“Clarke.”

Clarke shivers, her name blowing warm over her lips. No one said her name like Lexa, and she had missed it so much.

“Run away with me.”

Lexa’s smile is sad, soft, and does not reach her eyes. “We have a duty to our people, Clarke.”

“I think we have a duty to love, do we not?”

“If the world was based on love, I imagine we would all live very different lives.”

Clarke looked at her curiously, propping herself up on her elbow. “What life do you imagine you would live?”

Lexa is silent for a moment, but Clarke can see the gears in her head turning, contemplation sparkling behind thoughtful green eyes aimed at the heavens. 

_“I_ imagine to be with you,” Clarke whispers, nose trailing the line of Lexa’s jaw. “One where we can freely express ourselves without fear of reprisals. Where we have lie-ins every day, even the birds quieting outside the windows to let us sleep, before their soft songs carry us awake. Where the first thing we do is kiss and hold one another. We stroll to the markets hand in hand, buy ourselves a small breakfast we eat as we wander the stalls, and I could kiss you in plain view of everyone, taste the sugared crystals clinging to your lips and naught a soul even spares us a second look. We spend the warmth of the afternoon beneath our tree, and I…” She cannot bear the intensity of Lexa’s soft gaze any longer as she lowers her voice to utter her next words; looks down at the traitorous tremble in her hands as she smooths her fingertips along the curve of Lexa’s neck, feels her pulse quickens as she says, “I am free to spend hours kissing you, and...touching you, wherever you please.”

Her fingers dip as Lexa swallows, her throat bobbing. Clarke ignores the flush of her own face, focusing instead on how Lexa’s skin seems to warm beneath her hand.

Her breath catches in her throat when Lexa suddenly reaches up and grasps her arm, slender fingers encircling Clarke’s wrist, and guides her hand lower. Clarke struggles to maintain steady breaths as Lexa places her hand on her chest, so dangerously close to her breast, palm pressed above her heart, and then tips her head up to capture her lips. 

“You are the reason it beats,” Lexa murmurs between slow, gentle kisses. “I am so filled with you.”

Clarke cannot explain the way the words strike a deep, aching chord inside her; how a throbbing heat strikes her low, low in the pit of her stomach and the centre of her legs; why her hand slips an inch lower Lexa’s chest, the tip of her longest finger resting over the centre of Lexa’s breast; how longing explodes within her when she tastes the hitch of breath Lexa spills into her mouth.

She wants Lexa to be filled with her. Every part, every inch; she wants to crawl inside her, make a home in her heart and live there forever. 

“Then leave with me,” she begs. She draws back when Lexa pauses, and eyes her seriously. “I’m not jesting. I could— God, Lexa. I could never go back to Finn after this. I’m so tired of pretending. I belong to you. You’re all I want.” She grips the flare of Lexa’s hip and squeezes insistently. “Run away with me.”

Her heart sinks when Lexa’s brow creases and her gaze drops off to the side, visibly conflicted. “Clarke…”

“Please. What, you’ll be shipped off to another duchess or some lord’s wife, off to be another companion? For how long, until your father decides it’s time you are to wed and start a family? You really want to risk marrying a man?” Lexa’s face twists in disgust, and Clarke squeezes her hip again. “Come with me instead. Let’s be done with all of this, these politics and the errors of our society— enough with them. I want _you_.” She kisses her, heart fluttering at how Lexa sighs into her mouth. “Please, darling. Take the leap with me. I love you, and all I desire is a life with you. No matter if it’s stolen or not, it will be ours and ours alone.”

Lexa swallows, her breathing quiet and shaky as she closes her eyes and tips her forehead against Clarke’s. When she speaks, her voice is low, strained. “But Clarke...there are so many things I cannot give you. I…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Clarke interrupts, voice confident and insistent. “All that matters is our love, and that’s enough. Okay?” Her heart thuds when Lexa finally nods, nose nudging Clarke’s. “Let’s leave tonight.”

Lexa’s eyes open. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” says Clarke decisively. Hope and excitement churn within her, as she shifts her hand to grasp Lexa’s and entwine their fingers. This feels _right_. This feels like what she’s been waiting her entire life for. “Let me just...sort something out with Finn. I owe him that much at least.” She doesn’t know what she’ll do. He never showed her where his aunt and uncle lived, so she doesn’t know where to find him. But perhaps she could write him a letter, and leave it here in the inn for him to find. “You can go grab your things from where you are staying. We can meet in the market square later tonight. Would that work?”

Lexa nods, an almost disbelieving gaze fixed on Clarke. “Clarke, are you…” She swallows thickly, looking at Clarke with something akin to desperation shining in her eyes. “Are you certain you truly want this?”

Clarke kisses her, and kisses her, until they are both dizzy with it. She sighs, shaky and filled with longing. “I have never been more certain of anything in my life.”

Clarke is a whirlwind of determination and excitement as she urges Lexa up and the two of them dress quickly. Lexa is quiet, seemingly stunned with this turn of events, but Clarke is practically vibrating with purpose. This is it.

This is what she’s been waiting for.

It’s what they should have done two years ago. Clarke should have climbed out of that window _with_ Lexa. It’s what they should have done even before that, when they were younger. 

This is all Clarke has ever needed. Just Lexa.

They won’t have their tree or their orchard or their old life, of course. They’ll have to run far, far away, to escape Titus’s wrath and influence. Clarke will have to write her mother a letter. She’ll be disappointed, Clarke is sure, but she no longer cares. She can’t bear returning to the life she had before this, where she felt as though she walked around half in a daze, operating mechanically, just going through the motions. Tonight is the first time she’s felt alive in two years, and she’s not going to make the same mistake of letting it slip through her fingers again.

“I love you,” she whispers to Lexa as she kisses her deeply, ardently, just before the door. 

“I love you so much, Clarke,” Lexa says softly, foreheads resting together and noses grazing. “I hope you know that.”

Clarke smiles, kisses Lexa again. “I know.” She looks at Lexa, at the way there seems to be something troubling her, by the slight frown hiding within her slack face. “Lex? You still want this, right?”

Lexa looks at her. All Clarke can see in her eyes is a fervent longing. “More than anything,” she says fiercely. 

“Meet me at midnight. Will you be there?”

Lexa stares into her eyes for a long moment, and the yearning in them has Clarke aching even though they stand without even an inch between them. “I’ll be there.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, love.”

Clarke smiles, eyes stinging as she squeezes them shut and kisses Lexa again; she never wants to stop. “Then go. I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you,” Lexa tells her again, and gives her one last lingering kiss before Clarke laughs and opens the door to usher her out, certain if she didn’t that she’d never stop kissing her for the rest of the night.

“I love you. Now go!”

Lexa gives her Clarke’s favourite crooked smile before turning; Clarke watches her walk down the hall, exchanging an affectionate smile with her when Lexa glances back at her before she rounds the corner and disappears.

Once back in her room, Clarke sets to work. She hunts down the wedding ring, finding it beneath the dresser. She writes Finn a letter that takes hours, with several crumpled iterations shoved into the rubbish bin, and finally gets it right with the very last bit of scrap paper she finds. She tells him she’s sorry, and she cares for him deeply but she’s in love with a person she’s spent her whole life loving and she can’t bear another moment living a lie. She folds it up and leaves it on the dresser with the ring placed carefully atop it.

Then she gathers the bag she’d brought to Polis, filled with all the clothes she’s brought with her, and heads out the door. 

Polis is dark and empty this late at night. Most of the bars are located on the other end of town, so the drunkards stick to that side. Clarke’s path is unimpeded as she treks down the cobblestone path, bag in hand, her body sore and aching from their lovemaking, and her heart pounding with purpose. She casts her gaze around for Lexa, eager to look at her again. It seems she’s the first to arrive, however, the market square empty save for the endless footprints stamped into the dirt from the earlier fair. 

Clarke takes a seat at the stone wall encircling the small clock tower, and waits.

And waits.

And waits long enough the excitement withers away, leaving behind an anxious uncertainty. Where is Lexa? Was she discovered by Nia and stopped? Was she accosted by some vagabond on her journey here? Is she okay?

Clarke paces in place, fretting. Perhaps it was foolish of her to suggest the two of them, both young women, meet in a large city in the dead of night. Dangerous. 

Life would be like this now.

But just as she’s deliberating her next move— which at the moment involves wandering the city at length to search for Lexa on her own— her gaze catches on something. On the other side of the stone walls there’s a random book sitting atop the rock face.

Clarke draws near, curiosity and confusion growing with each step. She recognizes Lexa’s favourite poet...this must be a book she snuck away from Sankru. There’s a folded up piece of paper inserted within as a bookmark. Clarke hastily opens it up, pressing the open book to her torso to hold it up as she grips the letter with shaking hands. Her name is written on the outside in Lexa’s elegant scrawl. 

_My darling Clarke,_

_I know we love each other, but this is the real world. Love doesn’t keep you safe. Love doesn’t put bread on the table, or a roof over your head, or bring respect to your family name. Our fathers were right; love is not what life is about. When it comes down to it, life is about survival, and love is only a weakness that gets in the way. You were right to do away with me two years ago; it kept you far safer than I ever could have. I love you more than anything, Clarke, but our love could not survive the real world. So I am so, so sorry...but we cannot do this. And I am so sorry to be telling you this in a letter, but I knew I could not face you; I am selfish, and would throw everything I said out the window for even the possibility of another moment in your arms. For the first time in my life, I hate the written word, and fully understand the sayings about a pen being as mighty as a sword. Figuratively speaking, I feel as though I am covered in blood, sword at my side, and turning my back on you in the midst of war. I hate to hurt you, but this is necessary. I’m making this choice with my head, not my heart._

_I will always love you, but I cannot allow my weakness to ruin your life. I love you too much to let you suffer merely because of my need for you. You deserve so much more than what I could give you. I’m sorry._

_-L_

  
  


Clarke stands motionless in the square for a long, long time. Long enough the clock tower behind her chimes, gongs echoing out into the night. It jolts Clarke back to reality, and she realises that she’s holding the letter so tightly her knuckles shine white, and that the tears streaming down her face are ice cold. 

She doesn’t know which feeling crashing around inside her is more potent. The devastating anguish of loss, or the damning strike of betrayal. They hurl around like a hurricane within her, so much so it makes her nauseated, like she could retch. Her body burns with the ghost of Lexa’s touch, the imprint forever embedded in her skin.

How could she do this? She promised. Lexa had promised her. Lexa never broke her promises.

Until now.

Clarke looks at the page in the book the letter had been tucked into; looks at the poem stamped out.

_What cannot be said will be wept._

Clarke closes her eyes. Her body trembles. She wants to throw the book into a fire. She wants to tear all the pages free, ball them up and stomp them into the ground. She wants to sink to her knees and wail out her grief. She wants to hate Lexa for this. 

For now, she can do none of that. She just remains standing, frozen in place, nothing more than a statue that blends into the stillness of Polis in the foggy twilight.

* * *

_No, no, no, no, no._

_How could she?_

It’s the only coherent thought surging madly in Clarke’s head as she stumbles back to the inn. The sky is black, mist crawling slowly over the Polis streets. Clarke doesn’t know how long she sat on the stone wall surrounding the clock tower at the market square, so numb not even the chill of the night and the cold stone could deep into her flesh and permeate the ice in her bones. The tears dried up some time ago, and it has left behind a hollow ache interspersed with a dull throbbing that grows by the second, until a devastating rage is drumming through her entire body.

_How could Lexa do this?_

She broke her promise. She _left_ her. And she didn’t even have the courtesy of breaking her heart in person, instead leaving this— this pisspoor excuse of a letter that may as well be spit in Clarke’s face. This idiotic book of poetry. Clarke clutches them tightly in her hands as she storms back to her room, slamming the door behind her, and then stands there, every inch of her body tense, rigid, as her mind races. The room still smells of sex.

 _How could she_ do _this?_

Clarke sees red. She hurls the book and the letter, watches them hit the wall and fall to the floor with a thud. The dull glimmer of satisfaction it gives her is more than enough to encourage her to indulge in this rage, and compulses her to seize whatever is nearest her and begin destroying it. 

She throws the wash basin and knocks the vases off the dressers and lets them all shatter on the floor along with the teacups and plates tucked in the countertop. Seizes the candlesticks off the counters and smashes them; chucks the candle snuffers across the room, and they leave chips where they hit the walls. Pulls down the decorative rounded wooden shadow bust portraits and hurls them across the room. 

She claws at her bed, in such a different manner than she had only hours ago; bites back a snarl when she discovers the mattress is still soaked with the evidence of their time writhing atop it and adamantly ignores that, instead tearing off the sheets and throwing them, followed by the pillows that still bear the scent of Lexa’s hair. Clarke slams them into the walls and dresser over and over again, tears of rage streaming from her eyes, until they burst under the strain and feathers explode into the air and Clarke finally stills.

She stands in the centre of all the chaos and destruction, chest heaving, gasping for breath. Feathers slowly float down around her. She looks around, an abashed sort of dread crawling up her spine as she takes in everything she’s done, and stills when she spots her reflection in the mirror; her face is a mess, puffy and red and wet. Her hair falls wild over her shoulders, and there are small white feathers all over her. She angrily brushes them away as she averts her gaze from her distraught reflection, and her eyes catch on a glint of gold on the floor.

Her jaw sets, body shaking with rage as she walks over to it, weaving her way around all the glass and debris littering the floor. She bends down and gingerly plucks up the necklace that the duchess had given Lexa. She trembles with her fury and all the spiteful possibilities. She wants to rip and break apart this chain into a million pieces. She wants to chuck it into the river; wants to stomp it into the mud; wants to hurl it into a latrine. She hates it. She hates this stupid, ugly necklace. She hates it more than she’s ever hated anything in her life, and she wants to throw it into Lexa’s cruel face, and—

Clarke can’t bear it anymore. She cries out, nearly bellows with her fury as she throws the necklace as hard as she can across the room; she doesn’t even see where it falls, though she hears the harsh clink. She’s too busy screwing her face up and burying it in her hands, sinking down onto the edge of the bare mattress. 

She has never been this angry before. Not even when Lexa was taken from her the first time. She tells herself it’s only rage but she knows the truth. At the heart of it all is a terrible, devastating grief. Because Lexa didn’t believe in them. She gave up before they even had a chance to try.

_Our love won’t survive the real world._

She hates her. She never thought she could. If you asked her even only a matter of hours ago, she would have laughed at the mere notion. But here she is now, and she does. God, she does. She hates Lexa so much. She isn’t the person Clarke thought she was. Clarke hates her. She _hates_ her. 

Clarke drops her hands from her face and leans against the wall. She doesn’t cry. She refuses to shed even one more tear over her. Never again.

_She hates her._

She falls back onto the mattress, curling up to avoid the damp spots on it. What she hates most of all is the tiny flame still flickering deep down inside her, the little spring of hope that permeates the darkness. That somehow Lexa will come back. That Clarke will wake to her in the morning, to soft apologies and soft kisses and softer declarations of undying love. Clarke eventually drifts off to those wishes, completely exhausted from the events of the day. 

* * *

She wakes with her anguish like a gnawing hunger clawing at her stomach and heart. Her first impulse is to double over, clutching at herself; she wants to whimper as she realises she’s alone. Utterly alone. She wants to weep.

But she can’t and she won’t. It’s so much safer to shut down, to let the rage consume her. So that’s what she does. She slowly sits up in bed, glancing around at the rubbish all over the room, and swallows thickly as she curls up against the wall, her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped around them as she watches the shadows sloping across the ceiling as the sun creeps over the distant horizon. It feels as though no time at all has passed before her room is fully bright, and there’s a rapping on the door.

Clarke blinks, jolting out of her reverie. She looks around with wide eyes. Oh God. Finn is here. And her room is completely demolished.

 _Survive_.

Clarke finds the letter she wrote to Finn and slips the wedding ring back into place on her finger before she opens the door for him. Finn’s smile immediately slips away, his brows shooting to his hairline in alarm. He immediately pushes past Clarke into the room and then stands there goggling and stammering before he finally manages to ask Clarke what on earth happened.

Clarke casts a dark gaze around. Moves her jaw.

“I tripped,” she says flatly.

Finn looks incredulously at her. “You tripped.”

Clarke lifts her chin. “Yes.”

Finn gapes around again. “Clarke, I’m going to have to pay for this!”

“I have a piece of gold you can sell,” she says coldly, before hunting around for the necklace. She drops it into Finn’s open palm. “The chain is broken,” she tells him as he lifts it up to inspect, “but it should still fetch a price.”

“Whose is it?” he asks, confused.

Clarke ignores the pang of her heart, focuses instead on the flare of rage that burns deep in her gut. 

“No one’s.”

Finn looks up at her, utterly discombobulated. “It has to be someone’s.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

It doesn’t.

And Clarke maintains that even when Finn persists in asking questions in confusion, though he soon drops it when he realises she’s not budging. Clarke clears up the room as best she can while Finn hurries off to find a merchant to pawn off the necklace. She ignores the glares from the inn owners as they leave with a warning that Clarke is not allowed back for future stays. She doesn’t care. She has no intentions of coming to Polis ever again. All that lives here are bad memories. 

Finn attempts to remain in good spirits as he accompanies Clarke outside to their waiting wagon after she declines his offer of breakfast. If she were in the right state of mind, she might have noticed the smeared lipstick stain on the side of Finn’s neck. She might have noticed the muted guilt-ridden panic in his eyes every time he glanced at her, as he overcompensated with jovial chatter as they set off down the long road home.

Perhaps she did notice, but she didn’t care. Too numb to be affected by anything.

Nothing much matters. She hunches over in the seat, eyes closed, letting the wagon jostle and sway her. It’s strange how a broken heart can turn something even as simple as drawing air into her lungs an arduous task. 

They arrive home at dusk and the house they share is quiet as they unpack the few wares Finn didn’t sell. Finn bathes as Clarke cooks them a meager meal of chicken and potatoes for dinner, and they share it in relative silence, until Finn finally clears his throat and Clarke glances up at him in surprise, having forgotten he was even there.

“Are we alright?” he asks with uncertainty. Candlelight flickers between them, and Finn tentatively reaches across the table to place his hand over Clarke’s. It’s too big, too clammy. Clarke resists the urge to pull free of it. “You’ve been acting differently since I fetched you this morning. Is...did something…” Finn pauses, audibly swallowing, taking a breath. “Are we alright?” he repeats.

Clarke looks at him. She’s had little expression to her countenance since last night, and it’s as though she only just became aware of it. She blinks, and forces a small smile to curve her lips. It’s wooden, but Finn seems to at least appreciate the effort. 

“We’re alright,” she says, voice raspy from disuse.

She looks back down at her food, cutting a piece of dry chicken and chewing it mechanically. Finn does the same, though with more hesitation. He looks back up at her.

“Are you certain?” he presses. 

Clarke doesn’t look away from her food as she takes a carefully measured breath. She’s not certain about anything anymore.

But she presses her lips together in another forced smile, this one more convincing, and levels a steady gaze at her husband. 

“I am.”

It’s a lie, she thinks later, as she lay awake in bed staring at the ceiling, Finn lightly snoring beside her. She eventually loses her patience listening to it and climbs out, shrugs on her robe as she pads across the room. She opens the window, taking a deep breath, grateful for the cool breeze, and looks up at the stars scattered across the velvet sky. 

She wonders if Lexa is looking at the same sky and feels a flush of latent anger, readily boiling to the surface. She can’t think such things any longer. 

There is one thing she’s certain about, and that is that she is never, _ever_ going to forgive Lexa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery warnings:  
> Smut. I think that's pretty much it.
> 
> Also somewhat of a spoiler, but considering how angsty each chapter ending has been thus far, I just wanted to say...this fic does have a happy, fluffy ending. Hopefully the payoff this is building toward will be worth it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, let me know what you think.


End file.
